From Shadows to Starlight
by Sarah Katheryn
Summary: In 19th century France, a journey begins. He's a mysterious artist and composer who hides his past-and his face- from the world. She's a small town girl with a broken home. When Alana meets Erik, one thing's certain: their lives will never be the same.
1. The Flight

_Watch a man in times of adversity to discover what kind of man he is; for then at last words of truth are drawn from the depths of his heart, and the mask is torn off._

Chapter 1

The Flight

Erik staggered through the tunnel, feeling nothing but pain. Biting, piercing, exploding pain. His body was whole, but his heart was in pieces. His eyes were so full of tears he could barely see, but he could hear. He heard the shouts of the mob that had found his lair…the police, soldiers, actors and workers at the opera house, and enraged citizens who'd come to the opera that night, witnessed all hell break loose, and were determined to help finally end the terror that'd gripped the Opera Populaire and all who were involved with it. As he ran through the passageway, blinded by tears and darkness, feeling his way along the cold stone walls with his hands, the sounds of shouting gradually faded. By now they must have found his home, and were probably tearing it up looking for him. _Home._ How could he even call it that? Homes were places you shared with people you loved and who loved you. At home, you could be safe. Happy. You were never alone. But he was always alone. No, he had never had a home. And he never would. Images flashed through his mind of all the things he'd collected being destroyed as the mob searched for him-his treasures broken, his sheet music ripped and tossed on the floor, trampled by muddy boots. He was stricken with feelings of loss, but his possessions were no longer so precious to him. How could they be, when his greatest treasure of all was gone?

Erik stopped, too grieved to run any more. He collapsed onto the damp stone floor and wept uncontrollably, his tears mixing with the water that dripped steadily from the ceiling and became a small stream throughout the passageway. Like a river of tears. He didn't know how long he lay there, but at some point, he found himself getting up and feeling his way through the tunnel again.

_But why am I even running?_ he thought. _Why don't I just surrender myself to them? What do I have to live for now?_

Nothing. He had nothing to live for. But he was afraid. More than anything, he wanted the pain that had haunted him for so long to die. But there was only one way for that to happen, and he was afraid. The thought of dying terrified him-he knew what would await him after death.

Fire.

He felt a new wave of grief wash over him as the tears streamed down his face. He stopped again and closed his eyes, weeping. He wept for himself. For her. For the people he'd hurt. For everything.

Suddenly he felt something soft rub against his face. He opened his eyes and blinked away the tears clouding his vision. He was leaning against the wall in the tunnel, which was dimly lit, but enough to see his horse standing beside him. Raven. Black as his despair. Erik had kept her down in the tunnels all her life. Her makeshift stable, which was really just a cavern chamber with its floor covered with hay and straw, was not far ahead, and was lit by many candles and wall torches that cast enough light into the tunnel for him to see a little. Raven was his only friend, the only one who could look at him without fear, love him in spite of the terrible things he'd done. He stroked her nose, then put his arms around her and buried his face in her neck, letting his tears soak into her mane.

He wasn't sure how long he stayed like that, but when he heard shouts down the corridor, he used every ounce of will he had to pull himself together. They had found the mirror-broken, now-but they would never find him. He walked quickly to the stable, taking Raven's saddle and bridle and putting them on her as fast as he could. The sound of men's voices grew louder. Erik glanced over his shoulder and saw the light of torches a ways off. He jumped on Raven's back and as if she could read his mind, the horse immediately charged into a full gallop. The sound of hoof beats now echoed through the tunnels, and Erik knew the mob would hear them, but that was no matter. The men would never catch them-they didn't know the catacombs like he and Raven did. If they continued after him, they would be lost forever in the darkness.

Erik guided Raven through the tunnels. Sometimes there were torches or candles to light their way, and other times there was only darkness, but they knew the passageways by heart. Erik took random tunnels here and there, stopping to let the horse rest when she grew tired. He waited till the next night fell to leave the catacombs under the Opera Populaire. That way, he would have the cover of darkness long enough to make it out of Paris without anyone seeing him, or even worse, recognizing him. By now, the police and the mob had given up…or died in the tunnels. He could no longer hear them. There were many dangers hidden in the endless dark passageways.

Before he left, Erik decided to leave Raven to let her rest a little longer, and he walked until he reached one of his several storage chambers. He had a few of them scattered around the catacombs, stocked with food and drink and clothing, and most importantly, money. In the center of the chamber lay a huge chest full of it. Hurriedly, Erik took enormous handfuls of money and stuffed it into a sack. No matter how bad things got, he thought, he refused to live like a beggar-he had had enough of that long ago, during his childhood. He took two more bags, putting in the first bag food and canteens that he'd filled with water from some sealed jugs, and some clothes in the other. He also found a few more wigs and masks, thankfully.

He looked at the mask in his hand and grimaced, feelings of shame rising up inside of him. Christine had pulled off his mask in front of a theater full of people. They had all seen his face. And screamed with fear. Why had she done it? Why did she have to expose him like that? Was there even a reason? There was a lump in his throat, accompanied by a bitter taste in his mouth. He'd thought Christine was different from other people, like the ones he had grown up with in the carnival. But she wasn't. Something like anger towards her swelled up inside of him, but it was quickly overshadowed by sorrow and despair. He fell to the floor and curled up tightly, just laying there and sobbing.

Erik woke. He had cried himself to sleep, and wasn't sure how long he had been there. He found a stopwatch among his possessions that he'd decided to bring. It kept perfect time, and it read 8:00. The perfect time. Quickly, he dressed in a new set of evening clothes and pulled on a wig and mask. His face was so swollen from crying that the mask didn't fit well, and it rubbed painfully against his skin. No matter. He was used to pain. He gathered his bags of essentials, along with his violin case, which held one of his most prized possessions. There was nothing for him to live for but music now. Without music, he would die.

He didn't want to leave the catacombs. This place had been his…no, not his home…just, the place he had lived for such a long time. He knew so little of the outside world; all he had to go by were memories of his wretched childhood, and the things he had read in the books Madame Giry had brought to him over the years to amuse him, keep him company, and make him forget his own sorry life for a while. He missed Madame Giry. He missed Christine. The only people who'd ever cared about him. But still, even they were afraid of him.

_Why was I cursed?_ he wondered. _Why was I born like this? Condemned to spend a life in darkness? Alone._

He went back to where Raven had been resting and rubbed his horse's neck. At least he knew she would never leave him. He attached his bags to her saddle and led her up a final staircase. Then he walked toward an old, rusted door. He opened it slowly-it creaked loudly, making him cringe. Then, he stepped through the door.

They stood in a darkened alley behind the opera house. He climbed on Raven's back and took in their surroundings. The once bright lights of the Opera Populaire were all gone out now, the windows were broken, and the smell of ash and smoke still hung in the air and hinted at the destruction within the walls of the building. He'd destroyed it. Guilt gnawed at his insides. But still, his anger snaked its way into his mind and burned as bright as the flames that had ravaged the opera house. He'd done something terrible, but the people in that opera house had tried to do something terrible to him. And he hated them for it.

Suddenly a scream pierced the quiet of the night. Erik turned and saw two small figures in the shadowed alley-a little girl, and a boy even younger than she was.

"Who is it?" the little boy asked his sister, who stood trembling with fear, her fists clenched."

"It-it's him!" the girl's voice shook. "It's the Opera Ghost!" Without warning, she dashed off down the street and her brother, whose eyes had grown wide with fear, bolted after her; both shouted "Police! Police!"

Erik leaped back onto Raven's saddle, and urged her into a gallop. They'd be gone before the police came. As he rode through the street-lamp lit roads of Paris, he thought of the fear of the little children. _It's the Opera Ghost! _They had never seen him before, and yet they knew him. Or at least, the evil, nameless phantom of a villain everyone thought he was. Maybe he was wrong and everyone else was right. Christine had said the true distortion in him lay not in his hideous face, but within his soul. Now all he could feel in his heart was cold and darkness. As they passed rows and rows of houses, Erik thought of the people who lived in them. They were families, living together in homes. With love. Rain began to fall from the sky, which grew into a steady downpour and mixed with the tears running down his face and his mask.

Raven ran all through the night. Erik rarely had to guide her as they left Paris behind and entered the countryside. He had no idea where he was, but it didn't matter, since he didn't know where he was going. Now he was riding on a quiet country road. The rain tapered off, and Raven slowed to a walk. As the sun began to rise, Erik began to panic a little, and searched for a place to hide. The sun was burning his eyes, and he couldn't let anyone else see him; though he wore a mask again, he felt as if it were invisible, and everyone could see the twisted, haunted face beneath. No, no one could see him, not after what had happened the last two nights. Two nights. It felt more like two years.

Nearby there was a small patch of forest, and between the trees Erik glimpsed a small building. It was a dilapidated little wooden shack; it looked abandoned, so he guided Raven toward it. A closer look revealed that it _was_ abandoned, so he dismounted and unsaddled Raven, setting her free to rest and graze in the adjacent meadow clearing.

"Don't go too far," he told her. It was the first time he'd spoken since two nights ago, and his voice was hoarse and barely audible. _Don't you leave me too, _he added silently. He turned and looked the shack up and down. Well, at least he had a project now-to turn that shack into a place he could live in. Suddenly he realized how tired and thirsty he was, and he led Raven in a search for water. Erik had another project as well-survival.


	2. Ghost Stories

Chapter Two

_The lawn is pressed by unseen feet, and ghosts return gently at twilight, gently go at dawn, the sad intangible who grieve and yearn…_-T.S. Eliot

Ghost Stories

Alana walked up to the small town's only grocery store, and was surprised to see a large crowd of people inside through the storefront window. She hurried to the door and walked inside, finding half the townspeople in the building. They were all surrounding the store owners, Jean-Paul and Marguerite Durand , and old Marchal, who was sitting on a wooden chair, smoking a pipe and arguing with a policeman.

"What's going on?" Alana made her way over to Madame Marguerite.

The older woman looked at her like she was crazy. "What's going on? Where have you been for the past few months?"

Then the realization dawned on her. "Oh! I'm sorry…I've been a bit busy lately and I forgot…the mysterious shop visitor." She struggled to concentrate on what was going on and remember what had had the whole town talking for months. "Were more items gone this morning when you opened the shop?"

"Yes! A whole pile of food and supplies. It's been quiet around here for a while, but this morning when Jean-Paul and I came downstairs, there were all kinds of things missing, but on the counter we found over a hundred francs! Far more than everything was worth!"

Alana shook her head. "What I don't understand is how this person gets into the shop without anyone seeing or hearing anything…"

"It's easy," old Marchal interrupted, "if you're not a person."

"Not this again, "Jean-Paul groaned.

"I know you don't believe me Jean-Paul," Marchal said, "but how else can you explain what's been going on here in this town? We have a mysterious visitor on our hands."

"You're crazy," Jean-Paul said. "Nobody believes this nonsense you've been saying…"

"Nonsense?" Marchal just laughed. "Just ask the others about the things they've seen." He gestured around the crowded room and pointed to a woman. "Madame DuBois…you're a respected woman in the community. The mayor's wife. Tell the doubting Thomas here what exactly _you _have seen."

The tall, elegantly dressed woman who stepped forward was, as old Marchal had said, the most respected woman in town. She was rich, fashionable, personable, intelligent, and very steady and level-headed. A pillar of the community. But as Jean-Paul looked in her eyes, he saw something there that was anything but sane.

"Madame DuBois." Jean-Paul took his cap off and gave a small bow.

"Go ahead. Tell Jean-Paul what you saw." Marchal put his pipe back in his mouth and sat back in his chair.

The entire room grew quiet. Alana's curiosity was roused. She'd heard rumors about people who had seen strange things around the town, late at night, but they had always been from people like old Marchal, who was known for his tall tales. If Madame DuBois told someone she had seen something, then she had.

"It was late last night. I couldn't sleep, so I went to the window and looked out. Then I saw something."

"And what was that, Madame?" Marchal asked.

"I don't know," the woman said. "It was late, so it was very dark. But the moonlight hit just right in some places, and I saw…something…up on the rooftop of Monsieur Martin's house. Even with the little bit of light it was hard to identify what exactly it was. All I can say about it is that it was a tall, dark figure…it could have been a man dressed in black, but I couldn't see enough to determine if it really was a man or not, and it was moving so fast, faster than any man I've ever seen. It was running and leaping, or maybe flying, from rooftop to rooftop, and it didn't take long before it was completely out of sight. Ladies and gentlemen, I don't know what I saw, but I do know it was no ordinary man."

Immediately, everyone in the room started murmuring. Alana remained silent, trying to take everything in. What a strange situation. When she'd first moved to the town of Détente, it had seemed so normal and peaceful. Safe. But she knew now that Détente was anything but safe. She heard the policeman talking about patrolling the streets at night, swearing that if the mysterious visitor was dangerous, he would find him and put him behind bars. He was a good policeman, Alana knew…he kept a lot of people safe. But not everyone.

"What do you think now, Jean-Paul? Still think there's a logical explanation for all this?" the old man was saying.

"I'll admit all this is very strange, but I'm not about to believe in your ghost stories, Marchal!"

Alana absently pushed her hair back from her face, listening to several conversations at once. Some people said they'd heard violin music late at night, but they didn't know where it came from. Others reported hearing an otherworldly voice singing strange songs full of pain and anguish. There were other shops with things missing, but money left on the counter, more than the items were worth. However, no one had seen anything that could identify who exactly had become a part of their town. Only the mayor's wife had come close, and even she wasn't exactly sure what she had seen. It seemed to be the consensus of the town that they had a ghost in their midst.

"You're very quiet today, Alana." Madame Marguerite came up beside her. "Not to mention very late for work. Is something wrong? Where have you been?"

A chill went down Alana's spine. She bit back her initial response and stammered, "I…I'm all right. I'm fine." She let her blonde hair fall back in her face.

"Wait a minute." Madame Marguerite put her hand on Alana's shoulder and tried to brush back the hair from her face. Alana flinched and tried to pull away, but the woman's grip was strong, and she pushed the hair back. Then she gasped.

There was a large, ugly black bruise on Alana's right temple. Madame Marguerite's grip loosened and Alana quickly pulled away, letting her hair fall back into place, hiding the hideous bruise.

"What happened?" the grocer's wife asked, her face shocked and concerned.

"I…I fell and hit my head yesterday. I'm fine now, though. I'm ready to work, what would you like me to do?

"You don't have to lie to protect him, Alana," Madame Marguerite said, taking her hand.

"I don't know what you mean by that."

It was clear to the grocer's wife that Alana had no intention of telling her anything. She had her suspicions though. "I think we can spare you for the day, my dear. You're not looking well at all. You should go home and get some rest."

"I can't rest. I have to go find him." Alana let go of Madame Marguerite's hand and walked quickly out of the shop.

She wandered back and forth around Détente all afternoon, but her father was nowhere to be found. She was very worried about him this time. The sun began to set and still she hadn't found him, but she decided to head home before night fell. If there was something or someone dangerous in Détente, or a ghost, as old Marchal believed, she didn't want it to find her. She had enough to deal with right now.

The sun had just sunk below the horizon when she got back to her family's farm, or what was left of it. There used to be horses and cows and chickens, a garden full of vegetables, and an orchard of fruit trees. Now the fields and barn were empty, and the gardens and lawn were overgrown with tall grass and weeds. They lived just outside of Détente, but no one came around the farm anymore. Alana had tried her best to keep things as they had been, but it was too much work for her to do alone, and she had to spend all her time working for Monsieur and Madame Durand to make the money her father needed.

She went through the rusty, falling-apart gate and into the darkened house. She lit some candles and ate a dinner of bread and cheese…that was the only thing left in the pantry. She would have to find a way to get some food from the Durand's grocery tomorrow. The only problem was, there wasn't any money-she hadn't made any today, and she'd had to give her previous month's salary to her father. She knew her employers…they were more than employers really; they were her friends, and if she needed something, she knew they would give it to her. But she didn't want them to worry. She could take care of herself; she would figure things out. She always did.

Alana took a candle and made her way through the dark, creaking hallways to her room. Once she got there, she knelt on the floor and pulled something out from under her bed. It was an old family portrait; of her when she was about three years old, with her father and her mother. Her mother looked so beautiful, and her father looked so happy. She hadn't seen him smile like that since before her mother died ten years ago, when she was only eight years old. Alana had kept the portrait hidden from her father, knowing he would destroy it if he found it, along with the golden locket she kept in a small box alongside the portrait. It had been a gift to her mother from her father on their first wedding anniversary, and her mother had given it to Alana right before she died of pneumonia. She took the locket out of its box and opened it, running over the tiny words written on the inside in a lovely, flowing cursive script:

To Una on our first wedding anniversary: You are my sun, my moon, my guiding star. My hope, my comfort, my only true love. My everything. I love you more than words can tell. From your adoring husband, Andre.

As Alana read, tears streamed down her face. When Una had died, Andre had completely fallen apart. He grieved ceaselessly for months, stopping all work and leaving little Alana to take care of herself. Finally, he stopped weeping and began drinking. He was angry when he was drunk, and Alana had to make sure to stay out of his way, and when she wasn't able to, she had to find out how to hide the ugly bruises she had on her face or arms.

She put the locket around her neck, trying to remember Andre as he once was, and how happy she used to be when she had a mother and father. She was an orphan now, really…her father was gone. She crawled into bed and tried to fall asleep. She wasn't feeling well at all, and shivered. _Thank God Father isn't here yet._ She had no idea where he was, but she knew what he was doing: drinking. And he was bound to be very, very angry whenever he came home.

As she lay awake in the darkness, she began to hear a faint noise. It grew louder, and she realized it was a voice. It was singing. _It must be the ghost of Détente! _she thought, jumping out of bed and running to her window. She looked out into the night.

There, on a hill just beyond their farm, was a horse and rider, with the moonlight shining down on them. The rider was cloaked all in black and looked terrifying in the night, but its voice was beautiful, and it drew Alana towards it. She turned and hurried out of her room.

When she came outside, she could hear the voice clearly. It seemed to fill up the whole valley somehow, echoing in an eerie but enchanting way. Alana kept walking slowly closer to the strange rider in a daze, hardly knowing why or how she kept moving towards it. The voice was beautiful, but full of sorrow and loneliness. It was the saddest thing she'd ever heard. Her eyes filled with tears as she listened to the rider sing:

_Child of the wilderness_

_Born into emptiness_

_Learn to be lonely…_

_Learn to find your way in darkness_

_Who will be there for you?_

_Comfort and care for you?_

_Learn to be lonely…_

_Learn to be your one companion_

_Never dream out in the world_

_There are arms to hold you_

_You've always known_

_Your heart was on its own_

_So laugh in your loneliness_

_Child of the wilderness_

_Learn to be lonely_

_Learn how to love life that is lived alone_

_Learn to be lonely…_

_Life can be lived…_

_Life can be loved…_

_Alone…_

Tears soaked Alana's face. She blinked through her tears and saw the rider bow his head in silence. Was he crying too? All she wanted was to run and comfort the lonely figure. She began to walk towards him…

Suddenly someone grabbed her. Big sweaty hands seized her by the shoulders and spun her around violently.

Her father. His breath smelled of countless drinks.

"I TOLD YOU…TO STAY IN THE HOUSE!" he roared, shaking her furiously. Alana, paralyzed with fear, went limp like a doll in his arms.

"I'll…teach you a lesson you won't forget!" Her father took hold of a large, spiny tree branch on the ground. He pushed Alana down face first. She screamed. That made him angry, and he struck her with the branch. It knocked the breath out of her and cut into her back. She screamed again and tried to get away, but he yanked her back to him by her hair and beat her again and again and again, snarling like some inhuman beast.

Alana's vision blurred. This was the worst it had ever been. The pain was too great for her to bear. _This is the end,_ she thought dimly. _At least I'll see Mother again…_

Then she heard hoof beats. The blows stopped coming and her father turned around, crying out in fear as a faceless figure cloaked all in black leaped off its horse and attacked him.

The rider. The rider had come. He would save her. Alana saw nothing else, and fell into utter darkness.

The cloaked rider effortlessly seized the branch from the drunk's hand and struck him across the chest with it. The drunk fell on the ground, and the rider hit him over and over.

"Mercy! Please mercy!" the drunk shouted. The rider paused for a moment. Then he struck the man on the head, knocking him senseless.

Erik bent down and carefully turned the girl over. She was still breathing, thankfully. As gently as he could, he lifted her off the ground and set her on Raven's back. Then he climbed up and held her in his arms so she wouldn't fall as Raven took them home.

This was the first contact he'd had with any other human beings in many months. And of course, there had been violence. Violence followed him everywhere.

_Surely I am a curse upon this earth._

His gaze turned to the girl. She was badly hurt, but would survive. He would make certain of that. He would take care of her, and make sure that man never hurt her again.


	3. The Artist's Retreat

Chapter Three

_Art is the only way to run away without leaving home.-_ Twyla Tharp

The Artist's Retreat

Alana woke to a crash of thunder and the sound of rain pouring down on the roof. She blinked, and looked around in confusion. _Where am I?_ she wondered. She slowly came to her senses enough to take in her surroundings. She was lying on her stomach in a warm bed in a small, one-room house. It was tiny, like an old shack, but it was filled with beautiful things.

Luxurious velvet curtains covered all the windows, and candles brightly blazed on many golden candlesticks. There were pictures on all four walls: gorgeous landscapes, drawings of a horse, paintings of roses. And there were pictures of people. There were some of a woman with long braided hair, accompanied by a younger, blonde ballerina. But pictures of another girl were absolutely everywhere. It was a beautiful girl, with dark hair and porcelain skin. In one of the paintings she wore a little diamond ring on a chain around her neck, and in her hand she had a rose with black ribbon tied around it. Her eyes looked sad, afraid…haunted. The picture looked more lifelike than any painting Alana had ever seen. The artist must have been very skilled, and she could feel that he must have loved that girl very much. Perhaps it was the artist who lived here. It had to be…

Alana looked around the house. The floor was covered with books and pieces of paper, some crumpled and torn. A closer look revealed that lines of music notes were written on those sheets of paper. _What kind of person lives here?_ Alana wasn't sure, but she did know that she had never seen anything quite like this before.

The thunder crashed again, bringing her back to reality. She felt a stabbing, ripping pain in her back and remembered. Her drunken father beating her…the rider, the lonely figure who had sung that song, had suddenly appeared beside her. He had rescued her, and probably saved her life. But where was he now?

Suddenly the door was thrown open. The thunder roared and Alana saw a cloaked figure appear in the doorway in a flash of lightning. She cried out in fear and hid her face in her blankets.

She heard the door close, and something being set on the floor. She dared to look up again. The figure removed its dripping black cloak and threw it on the floor as well.

Alana breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn't a monster. It was only a man. He was a very handsome man, she noticed. Then he turned.

The other half of his face was hidden by a white mask. _Why is he wearing that?_ She wondered. He walked slowly toward her as she stared at him feeling confused, afraid…and enchanted.

"Don't be afraid."

His voice was quiet and soft, but deep and dark, like velvet and like thunder.

"I won't hurt you." The man met Alana's gaze. He looked so sad, like he was holding back tears. Alana had never seen eyes as sad as his. But they were beautiful, a blue-green color that reminded her of the sea, so quiet and lovely on the surface, but with the threat of danger beneath. All the sorrow and despair of the world seemed to live inside those beautiful, haunted eyes, and Alana yearned to see them bear a happier expression.

Their eyes met for but a moment. The man looked away after only a few seconds. "You're hurt," he said, not looking at her, "and sick. I have medicine."

Alana was jerked back to reality again, and realized how much pain she was in, and how sick she felt. The man picked up the bag he had set on the floor, took off the black gloves he'd been wearing, and brought the bag over to the bed, along with a silver bowl of water and some fine white linen. He sat down beside Alana and took out a glass bottle of something from the bag.

"Do you…mind?" He asked, hesitantly.

Alana shook her head.

Carefully, as if he were afraid he would tear them, he pulled the blankets away. He slowly, cautiously unbuttoned the back of Alana's nightgown, though the uppermost part of it was barely there, ripped apart by the jagged branch she'd been beaten with. He unbuttoned it just as far as the wounds went, and then he began washing the cuts with the water and linen, still slowly. He was so gentle it hardly even hurt. Next he rubbed something cool and soothing onto the horrible welts. His hands were so soft, yet his touch was electric.

Finally, he finished. Alana was sorry it was over. He buttoned what was left of the back of her nightgown again and put the blankets back over her.

"Thank you," she whispered, shivering despite the warmth of the blankets.

He put that soft hand on her forehead. She was blazing hot. He took more linen, soaked it in the water, and dabbed it on her forehead. Alana closed her eyes and lost herself in his presence, in pain but enjoying every second nonetheless and wishing the moment would last forever…

_What on earth? What am I thinking? Why do I feel like this? I don't know this man! And that mask….why does he wear it? Is there something horrible underneath? Who is this?_

Alana opened her eyes again. His sad blue-green eyes met hers for a moment, but he quickly turned away. He acted…almost as if he were afraid of her. She realized that she should be afraid of _him_, but for some reason, she wasn't.

"Do you…" he said haltingly, "…need anything?"

Alana's throat was parched and terribly sore. "Water? Please?"

He nodded and filled a little silver cup with water, handing it to her somewhat gingerly. She raised her head and drank, then handed him the empty cup. She felt a bit better now, and she'd just realized something.

"Oh…I'm sorry…I haven't told you my name…I'm Alana Valjean."

The man silently mouthed the word. "Alana." He said nothing.

"Well, aren't you going to tell me your name?"

He visibly started, looking shocked by the question. He turned and stared at the floor.

"You must have a name," Alana coaxed. "Don't you?" _What if he didn't? Poor thing. He looks so sad…_

"Erik," he said suddenly. He said it as if it were a foreign word he didn't really understand. He looked back at her for a second, then back at the floor again. "My name…is Erik."

"I'm very glad to meet you, Erik…" Alana whispered sleepily. She was exhausted, and felt herself dropping off to sleep. She closed her eyes, and fell into dreams.


	4. What's in a Name?

Chapter 4

_The name of a man is a numbing blow from which he never recovers-_ Marshall McLuhan

What's in a Name?

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

"_Do you know where you got your name, Erik?" his mother asked him. She had a bottle of whiskey in her hand, as usual. She almost never spoke to him when she was sober._

_The little six-year-old shook his head._

"_I named you after your father." A distant, bitter look appeared his mother's dark eyes._

_Erik had never known that. His mother had told him so little about his father. "I wish I knew him…"_

_His mother laughed. "Your father doesn't want anything to do with you. He's too good for us. He would be more ashamed of you than I am! He doesn't give a damn about either one of us." She took a swig of whiskey. "He never did."_

_Erik felt sad and confused. "Where is he?"_

_His mother shook her head. "I don't know. Somewhere on the better side of the city, somewhere living free and happy and rich, while we rot here in this filth." She gestured around their tiny room in the dirty slum._

"_He was rich?" Erik had seen rich people once, one day when he went out exploring. They were so different than the people he saw every day that he almost didn't believe they were the same…kind. Like they were a whole different creature all together. But maybe not, if his father had been one of them…_

_She nodded. "Very."_

"_How did you meet him?"_

"_It was a meaningless affair for him. At first he seemed kind, but in time he turned out to be a monster." She took another drink._

_Erik wasn't sure what she was talking about, but flinched at the word "monster."_

_Laughing bitterly, she said, "You take after him, you know. I knew you would from the moment you were born and I saw your face. That's why I gave you his name. Do you know what Erik means?"_

_Erik shook his head. He didn't think he wanted to know any more._

"_Well, some say it means Eternal Ruler." She spoke slowly and dramatically, her eyes lighting up._

_A faint smile crossed little Erik's lips. "Like a king? Was my father a king?"_

_She laughed out loud. "Oh, he acted like he was the king of the world! He wasn't, but he was still very rich and powerful. That's why he won't have anything to do with us…we are an embarrassment to him, just a reminder of a mistake." She shot a resentful look at Erik. "That's what you are to me. You know I never meant for you to be born."_

_Erik's eyes filled with tears._

"_You're weak, too, like your father was," she said, her tone laced with spite._

_Erik turned and ran out the door into the street, hot tears of shame running down his face and his mask. He didn't want to hear any more, but he heard his mother shout._

"_Wait! I haven't told you what the other meaning of your name is yet! The name Erik means Alone! You're alone, Erik!"_

_His little hands went up to cover his ears and drown out the sound of her bitter laughter._

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Erik watched over Alana as she slept. With the exception of Madame Giry, this girl was the first person he had ever met who had asked for his name. When he'd lived with the gypsies, they'd called him the Devil's Child. He just wanted to forget about _that_. Then, at the Opera Populaire, he had created a new identity for himself, and was known only as the Phantom or the Opera Ghost. Christine knew him as yet another identity, her Angel of Music, but he realized, with a stab of pain, that she had never even asked him what his name was. For most of his life, he'd been nothing but a nameless mystery. And a very, very lonely soul.

He had missed Madame Giry more than he thought he would, these past months. He felt so grateful to her for what she had done for him…without her, he knew he could never have survived. She helped him find his way in darkness. She tried to help him be content with his life of loneliness.

But he could never be content. He hated to be alone. He hated being Erik.

He gazed at the sleeping girl before him. Though she was sick and hurt, she was actually quite pretty, he had to admit. She looked to be about Christine's age. _Maybe she'll stay_…

He stopped himself right there. No. This girl didn't mean anything to him. He couldn't let that happen. He would never love anyone else ever again. Whether Christine loved him or not, she would always have his heart. He pulled out the diamond ring that he always wore on the chain around his neck and clutched it tightly. Nothing good could come of him getting attached to this girl. Nothing good came of anything he did. He closed his eyes, still holding the ring, and forced other thoughts into his head.

_I am my one companion._

_There are no arms to hold me._

_My heart is on its own._

_All on its own._


	5. When One Door Closes, Another Opens

Chapter Five

_When God closes a door, somewhere he opens a window-_ The Sound of Music

When One Door Closes, Another Opens

When Alana finally awoke, her first thought when she opened her eyes was that she was alone in the house, until she looked down at the floor. She had to smile at what she saw.

Her rescuer was lying on the floor sound asleep, with a troubled expression on his face, tightly holding something that was on a chain around his neck. Instantly her hands went to the gold locket she wore around her own neck-she'd put it on before she'd tried to go to bed…was it last night? She had lost track of time, not knowing how long she'd been asleep. She looked closer, and saw that Erik was holding a little diamond ring. It looked exactly like the one in the painting of the dark-haired girl on the wall behind him. He must have been the one who painted that picture. And he must have loved that girl very much. It was her ring.

_What happened to her?_ Alana wondered. Maybe she was the reason he was so sad.

Her gaze fell upon the mask that obscured half of his face, and she couldn't help but wonder why he wore it. Curiosity tempted to take it off while he slept so she could see what was underneath. But she didn't. She figured that he wouldn't want her to. Why else would he be wearing a mask anyway? It was as simple as that. It would be better to wait and see if Erik said something about it first, rather than do something that might upset him for all she knew.

She realized now that her back still hurt, but she was feeling better than she had before. Slowly, Alana got out of bed and stepped carefully around Erik's sleeping figure. She wanted to get a breath of fresh air, so she made her way to the door. She turned the knob, and a brilliant ray of warm sunlight lit up the whole house.

"SHUT THE DOOR!"

Alana jumped. Erik, suddenly awake, was crouched in a corner, his hands over his eyes.

"SHUT THE DOOR!" he screamed again. His voice shook the house.

With shaking hands, Alana closed the door. The house grew dark again. She stood, frozen but trembling, her heart pounding. His shouting had frightened her more than anything she had ever heard before. Nothing that is, except her father.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Erik lowed his hands from his eyes and blinked. The light had been so bright. Blinding. It terrified him, seeming to burn through him, right into his soul. He glanced over at the girl. Alana. She was frightened too. But not because of the sunlight. Because of him…he'd frightened her. He cursed himself silently.

He looked over at her again. She was still standing by the door, shaking with fear, like she had been the night he'd rescued her from her drunk, crazed father. He was no better to her than her father was. He had to do something…he hadn't meant to make her afraid. He opened his mouth and found himself saying something he'd never said before.

"I'm…sorry."

Alana no longer trembled, but she still stood like a statue by the door.

Erik rose slowly to his feet and moved toward her. "Forgive me," he said softly. "Please, forgive me." He stretched out his hand to her. "I didn't mean to frighten you."

His heart soared for a moment as he saw the fear leave Alana's deep hazel eyes. She took his hand gently.

"I forgive you." She smiled.

Erik just stared at her small hand in his for a moment, then suddenly pulled his hand back. She flinched and took a step away. _Wonderful_. He'd startled her again. "Sorry," he said pathetically, searching for other words. "Is…there anything you need?"

"Well…something to eat would be nice," she said a bit hesitantly, looking at him as if he might scare her again.

"Right." How stupid of him to not have offered her something to eat before. He glanced at his stock of food. He didn't usually eat much, and when he did eat, he ate simple foods. He had fruit, bread, cheese, some nuts, and that was about all, though he had just gone to the grocer's two nights ago. He'd left the rest in an alley where he had seen three beggars sleeping amongst piles of garbage. He hadn't needed that much food, but he knew that they did.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Alana took the silver plate from Erik with the food on it and sat down on the floor. She took a bite of the apple first. It was the sweetest, most delicious apple she'd ever tasted, but that could have had something to do with the fact she hadn't eaten in days. Erik took his own food and sat a little ways off.

They ate in silence. Alana wanted to say something, but it was like all her words had gone. Erik seemed to be without words as well, so she was left with her thoughts. Though he was still a stranger, and he sort of frightened her, she did like being with him. There was just something about him. The mask he wore intrigued her, but Erik himself intrigued her more. She found herself wishing she could stay here in this little house of beautiful things…

But she couldn't. She set down her plate and stood up.

"I have to go."

Erik quickly got to his feet too. He said nothing, but looked at her with a forlorn expression on his half-hidden face.

"Thank you for all you've done for me. It's time for me to go back…home. Now." She turned to go.

"You can't." Erik said.

Alana spun around. "What?"

"You can't go back." He paused. "That man who beat you…"

"That man was my father. I have to back and make sure he's all right." Alana headed for the door again, but Erik seized her wrist. She turned to look at him.

"He would have killed you…"

"My father loves me! He would never…please, just let go, I have to…" she tried to pull herself free from his strong grip but couldn't. She stared at his large hand on her wrist and trembled.

"I can't stay here, I…" she began, still staring at his hand, tightly holding her small wrist. She gazed up at him. "I don't trust you…"

Erik looked very hurt at her words, and let go of her wrist, but he held her gaze and Alana found it impossible to look away. His very presence demanded her full attention.

"You have to trust me," he said. "If you go back, you _know_ he will hurt you again."

Alana couldn't deny the feelings of doubt she had about ever being safe with her father, but Erik didn't have to know she felt that way. _Someone_ had to protect her father.

"No! No, he won't do it again! I know…now let me go!"

"If you try to leave, I will let you go, but first, listen to me," he said firmly. "He _will _beat you again. Trust me. I know." He sighed. "Men like him…they never stop." He closed his eyes and seemed to wince at some inner pain.

_What is going on inside his mind?_ Alana wondered.

Erik opened his eyes; a shadow had fallen across his countenance. "You can't go back. Is there…is there anywhere else you can go?" His own words seemed to hurt him.

Alana shook her head. "It's just my father and I." Then she remembered something else. "Wait…there is my father's half brother. He lives in Paris."

Erik froze. A thousand emotions flashed across his face, but most of all, Alana saw sadness. Powerful sorrow and deep despair, as well as fear.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

Erik seemed to recover himself, but didn't acknowledge her question. "Is that the only other place you can go?" Clearly he didn't want to talk to her about how he felt.

Alana nodded. "He and his wife are the only other family I have."

At the mention of the word "family", Alana saw more pain in Erik's eyes. He closed them and was silent for a long moment. Then he sighed and opened them again.

"I will take you to Paris. Tomorrow night. Where…where in Paris does your uncle live?"

"Not too far from the northern edge of Paris. Not that far away from here. It shouldn't take more than a few days to get there, at least by carriage. But I need to go home, not to Paris! Someone has got to look out for my father!"

"Not you! He'll hurt you again!"

"If I don't take care of him, then who will?"

Erik thought. "Write a note to someone in town, instructing them to tell all the businesses not to sell any alcohol to your father. He's too dangerous when he's drunk. Tell them to find him a doctor as well."

"How can I afford to pay the doctor?" Alana was indignant.

"I'll put a few hundred francs in the envelope. That should be enough for quite a while."

"You would do that?"

"To keep him from being able to hurt you again? Yes, I would." Erik's tone was firm sincerity. "Now, do you have someone you can write to?"

Alana hesitated.

"Do you? This is the best way!"

She nodded reluctantly. "Yes. My employers will know what to do. They've always tried to look out for me but I've never really let them."

Erik sighed. "I understand how you feel."

Alana could tell he meant those words. Her back hurt again, and she craned her neck to look at the ugly cuts through the tatters of her nightgown. Her nightgown? She realized with extreme embarrassment that that was all she'd been wearing this whole time, and even that was ripped up at the top of her back! "Um, I will have to stop at the house to get some…other clothes though."

Erik held up a hand. "I'll take care of that for you. When night falls, I will go to the town and get some supplies for our journey. And tomorrow night, we leave."

Alana nodded reluctantly. She still didn't want to leave, but she also didn't feel like arguing with Erik. It seemed to be pretty difficult to win an argument with him.

"So it's settled, then." Erik said authoritatively.

"I guess so."

Alana spent the rest of the day looking through piles of drawings, songs, and poems Erik had written. It had taken quite a while to get his permission, but once Alana made the point that she had been willing to let him take her to Paris instead of going back home, letting her look at his work hadn't seemed quite so terrible to Erik. He still cringed visibly every time she picked up a new song or poem, though. Most of his work she noticed, was wonderful, but unfinished, set aside for yet another unfinished piece.

Alana had tried to talk to him about what he'd written or drawn or painted, but he was a man of very few words to begin with, and he clearly didn't want to talk about any of his work. It was mostly melancholy and sad, like him, but it was still beautiful. Everything he made was beautiful, but twisted and dark and full of grief in some way. Alana just wished he could show _some_ happiness. What was wrong with the poor man? It had to have something to do with the mask he wore, the diamond ring, and the dark-haired girl she'd now learned was named Christine. Her name appeared in so many of his sad songs. Where was she now? She wanted to know but was afraid to ask Erik about it.

When the sun began to set, Erik took Alana outside to see Raven, his horse.

"She's beautiful!" Alana patted the horse's black neck. "I just love horses…we had them when I was younger. And you don't even have to tie her up? She just stays here all on her own?"

Erik nodded and stroked Raven's face.

"She must really love you, then."

He kept stroking Raven's face gently, and Alana could see in his eyes how much he loved the horse.

There was silence for a while, then Alana said, "Um, I haven't thanked you enough for what you've done for me. I really see now that you're right about everything. I know, somewhere deep down…my father still loves me, but you're right. He wouldn't have stopped." Her eyes filled with tears. "He's not himself anymore. If it weren't for you, I might be dead now. And what you say is true…I can't go back there again." Her throat hurt. "I just wish he would go back to the way he was before…before my mother died."

Erik looked at her compassionately. "I'm sorry," he said softly.

"Maybe someday I can come back. Maybe someday we'll be a family again."

"Maybe," Erik said.

Alana dried her eyes. "Do you have some paper? I need to write that note for Marguerite…she's always been there for me. She can watch over my father."

"Where should I deliver the letter?" he asked her.

"The apartment above the grocer's."

"I'll leave it for her when I go into town."

"You don't expect to go now, do you? All the shops will be closed soon!"

Erik didn't answer.

"Oh, that's right. You must be the one who breaks into all the shops at night and leaves money for the things you take. How on earth do you do that without anyone catching you? Come to think of it, why don't you just shop during store hours like everyone else does?'

Erik ignored the question and motioned for her to follow him back into the house, where he took a sheet of paper and a pen and handed it to her. Alana wrote:

_To Madame Marguerite:_

_I can no longer stay here in Détente. It's not safe. It hasn't been for a long time, but now I've finally come to my senses. I'm going to Paris, to stay with my uncle and his wife. You have been so good to me, before and after my mother died, and now I must ask a final favor of you. Please watch over my father for me. Tell any business that sells liquor not to sell any to him, and tell every person not to give him any alcohol no matter what. He needs to get well. If he doesn't get well in time, then please find help for him. Included is some money for the special care he needs. When I get to Paris, I will write to you so you will know my new address. Once again, I thank you for your kindness. Send my thanks to Monsieur Jean-Paul as well._

_Much love and gratitude,_

_Alana Valjean._

Alana put the note in an envelope, and placed it in Erik's black-gloved hand. He added a few hundred francs to the envelope like they were nothing, and put the letter in a pocket of his cloak. Then he left for town on foot, without a word. Alana opened the door to watch him go, but he was already gone. No wonder the townspeople thought he was a ghost, she thought to herself.

It was now twilight. The rising moon cast eerie shadows in the forest. Alana shivered and hurried back inside. She relit any candles that had died, and replaced any that had been melted down, but all alone in the house, she was still afraid. She could hear the wind, and strange noises from time to time. There was no lock on the door; anyone or anything could come in at any moment. What if her father tracked her down and found her? What if he walked through the door right now? Terrified, she got into bed and closed her eyes to shut out the shadows.

She wasn't sure how much time passed. Suddenly she heard the door open. She dared to open her eyes, and breathed a sigh of relief. Erik was back. He carried bags full of food and supplies on his back, and in his hands he held a fairly large, flat box.

"Here." He came over and set the box on the bed.

Alana lifted the lid, and gasped. She pulled out a beautiful blue dress. It was as smooth as silk…then she realized it was silk! It was absolutely exquisite…and expensive! Then she recognized it. It was the dress that had been displayed in the town boutique window for months. All the women in Détente, herself included, had come to look in the shop window at the dress many times, but no one had bought it because it was so expensive and extravagant.

"Is…is this for me?" Alana couldn't believe it. She hadn't even seen a dress so nice since…before her mother died.

Erik nodded. He'd also thought to get her some adorable white slippers as well, since she had left her house two nights before without wearing shoes and had been barefoot all this time.

"Erik…these are wonderful! Thank you…how did you know what sizes to get?"

He just shrugged. "I'm good at this sort of thing."

He certainly knew a lot about a lot of things, Alana thought. He was impeccably dressed himself, in a very well-fitting black shirt and vest, along with black trousers and boots. And that cape, of course. He began packing some more clothes and supplies for himself, putting them in large bags. Alana offered to help but he shook his head, saying he didn't need any help. He soon finished packing, and went outside to load everything up.

While Erik was outside, Alana changed into her new dress and shoes. There was a single mirror in the house, mostly covered by a heavy curtain. Alana drew the curtain away and looked at her reflection. The dress was beautiful, but she did not look so fine. She was horrified to see that her hair was all loose and out of place. How embarrassing to be around Erik looking like this! She was busy trying to smooth her hair and put it up when he came back in the house. He held a hairbrush in his hand, with something like a smile but more like a smirk on his face.

"Here," he said, almost looking like he was trying not to laugh.

"Thank you," she replied, "you really thought of everything, didn't you?"

He shrugged. "I'm ready to leave whenever you are."

Once Alana was finished, they both went outside, where she found Raven hitched up to a small wooden cart. She gasped and ran closer to get a better look at it.

"Something wrong?" Erik asked.

Alana looked at him in astonishment. "This…this was our cart!" She ran her hands over the wood. "We used it whenever we went to town. Until my father crashed it one night a few years ago. Our horse ran off that night, too. Where did you find this?"

"Off in the woods somewhere. It was in a bad state but I was able to repair it. Once we get to Paris, you may keep it. I can make do without it. It's yours."

Alana smiled. "Are you sure you don't need it?"

Erik nodded. "May I help you?" he asked, gesturing at the cart.

"Oh, no thank you," Alana said. "I can manage." She climbed up into the front seat.

She noticed Erik looked mildly irritated, or maybe flustered. He was hard to read a lot of the time. "Is there a problem?"

"No," Erik said. "I had just anticipated you would ride in the back, where it is more comfortable."

"Oh no, I'm quite all right," Alana assured him. "I would always ride up front when I was younger."

"Very well then," he said, climbing up and sitting down next to her. Alana noticed, however, that he sat as far away from her on the seat as he possibly could. _Did I do something wrong?_

"Walk on," he said to Raven, and they set off silently into the night.

They drove for what seemed like forever, with neither of them speaking a word. Finally, Alana dared to say something.

"Erik, why do you wait until it's dark to come outside?"

He didn't answer right away, but finally he replied, "I like the dark better."

"But why? And why don't you ever talk to anyone from the town? With the way you've been acting, you have most of the town convinced you're a ghost."

Erik flinched a little, but didn't answer.

"Are you afraid to talk to people? Is that it?"

"I prefer to be alone," he said evenly.

"But I'm sure everyone in town would like you," she said. "You're smart, and talented and…"

"I said, I prefer to be alone." Erik's tone indicated that he would also prefer for her to stop talking, but Alana didn't want to spend the entire ride to Paris in silence.

"Are you sure?" Alana asked. "Because if you don't mind my saying so, I think you would be much happier if you had someone to talk to more often."

"I highly doubt that," he said coldly. His icy tone was enough to shut Alana up for a little while. After a long silence she decided to risk asking another question.

"Erik…that night, before my father…started hitting me, I'd come outside because I'd heard you singing."

Erik didn't respond; he just stared straight ahead at the forest road they were driving on.

"That _was_ you, wasn't it?"

He gave a barely noticeable nod, which Alana interpreted as a yes.

"Well, I just wanted to tell you how beautiful the song was, the one you were singing. I've never heard it before…what was it?"

Erik sighed. "Nothing. Just a song someone used to sing to me."

"Oh. Well, what's your favorite song then?"

Erik's expression grew pained. "There are so many wonderful pieces of music in this world, some that are heard, and many that go unheard."

"So you can't choose a favorite song?" Now that she had him talking a little, Alana was determined to keep it that way.

"No." Erik said darkly. "Not anymore."

"So you used to have a favorite, but you don't anymore?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Will you just leave me alone?" he shouted, his voice thundering in the quiet night. Startled, Raven jerked to a stop, sending Alana lurching forward.


	6. The Cave

Chapter Six

_Turn your face away from the garish light of day, turn your thoughts away from cold, unfeeling light -_Erik

The Cave

Erik let go of the reins, reaching out with both his arms to catch Alana before she fell. With both arms around her waist, he steadied her back in her seat. He could feel her trembling. He'd lost it again and frightened her, and he hated himself for it.

"There, there, Raven," he said, taking the reins again. "It's all right. Walk on." Raven stomped her foot, but began pulling the cart again.

There was silence for a while. Erik glanced over at Alana. Her face was pale and she looked like she was fighting back tears. Not only had he shouted at her like a lunatic, but he could have caused her to fall out of the cart and hurt herself. Then again, she had been irritating, asking all those questions and talking his ear off. He wasn't used to making conversation. That didn't keep him from feeling terrible about frightening her yet again.

"Forgive me," he said. Alana turned to face him, eyes full of fear and sadness. He had upset her very much. He knew that was no way to treat a girl, especially who had been through as much as she had, with the situation with her father. If she only knew what he had been through. How could he ever act like a normal human being? He'd never been treated like one in his life. Still, as he looked at her, he felt extremely guilty, and knew there was no excuse for his behavior. "Forgive me," he repeated. "I frightened you again. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have shouted at you like that."

At his apologies Alana seemed to recover a little. "No, you shouldn't have. I was only asking you a question."

Erik nodded, feeling slightly embarrassed now.

"I'll forgive you. But only if you promise not to shout at me again, and to carry on a decent conversation without losing your temper. I don't want to sit in silence all the way to Paris."

"All right."

"Good. Now why don't you start a new conversation?"

"Me?"

"Of course. You're the gentleman after all."

Erik was taken aback. He couldn't remember being called a gentleman before. He tried his best to look the part, or even act the part, but he had never been entirely successful. Perhaps this girl was being sarcastic. He tried to think of something to say, but he couldn't find any words worth saying.

"Oh, never mind." Alana rolled her eyes. "I'll start things. Monsieur Erik, we have been in each other's company for a few days now, yet we know very little about each other."

Oh no. The last thing Erik wanted to do was to tell Alana his life story. He bit his lip.

"So where are you from? You can't have lived at the house in the woods your whole life."

Erik tried to figure out what he should say to her. "I…traveled around Europe…a great deal…when I was younger, but I spent most of my life in Paris."

"Oh, really? What part of Paris?"

He was sure she wouldn't believe him if he said the _underground_ part of Paris, so he just said. "Different parts. Here and there."

"How did you end up in the house in the woods?"

Erik thought again. "I…thought I would be happier in the country than in the city."

Alana nodded. "That's how my mother felt too. Before she met my father, she was used to living in the country, and she thought Paris was beautiful, but she missed the country life. So when I was a little girl we left the city and moved to Détente."

"It's a nice place."

"Even nicer during the day, especially when you have people to talk to. They're really very friendly."

"Well." Erik was getting mildly irritated again, but was glad she wasn't asking any more questions about his past. He also noticed that she hadn't yet said anything about his mask. He knew that she looked at it, and probably wondered why he wore it, but she had said nothing, and that rather surprised him. "As I've said, I prefer to be alone."

"Do you really?" Alana asked.

Erik looked straight in front of him, trying to keep a level head. Of course he didn't prefer to be alone. He hated it. Hated it more than anything in the whole world. He longed to be like Alana, free and able to walk about in the daylight and speak to anyone she wished. But he knew that no one he met would ever be able to think of him as a normal human being. All they would see was the mask on his face, and wonder about it, and maybe find out what was beneath it. And if they saw what he really was, they would hunt him down, and he would be locked up again.

"Monsieur Erik, are you all right?" Alana's voice jerked him back from his thoughts.

He saw now that the sun was beginning to rise and felt panic coming on. "We need to stop."

"Stop? But we're in the middle of the woods! Can't we wait until we come to a town?"

"No." He pulled Raven to a halt, and gave the reins to Alana as he jumped off the seat.

"What on earth are you doing?" Alana was looking at him like he was insane. Which was how he happened to feel at the moment.

"Stay there!" he said. "I'll return shortly." And with that, he ran off into the forest.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Alana was left alone, sitting in the cart, wondering what had come over her rescuer. She noticed that the sun was rising and that the light was getting stronger with every moment, and she remembered how Erik had shouted at her when she'd let the light into his house earlier, how he had covered his eyes to hide them from the brightness. He must have stopped so he could find a darker place to stay until night fell. But why would he do that? She'd never heard of a person who would only go out at night. At least, not a _real _person.

Alone, her mind worked feverishly, trying to come up with a reason for Erik's odd behavior. All of them were absolutely preposterous, and she couldn't make sense of them. But she heard footsteps approaching quickly, and suddenly Erik burst through the trees.

"Well I'm glad you're back! What have you been doing?"

Erik didn't answer, instead he hurriedly unhitched Raven, then grabbed a sack of supplies and a wooden case, which he set carefully on the ground.

"Come here, let me help you up," he said quickly.

"What's going…"

"Come on!" He _almost_ shouted. What in the world had him so tense? Rather than risk him shouting at her again, Alana jumped off the seat and onto the ground. Erik helped her onto Raven's back, then he handed her the sack and the wooden case. "Be _very _careful with that case," he warned her. Then he climbed up behind her, took Raven's mane in his hands, and sent her into a full-on gallop.

Alana quickly seized a handful of the horse's mane with one hand, holding on for dear life while trying to keep from dropping the sack and the case. They were riding through the woods with no path, Raven desperately trying to avoid fallen logs or any of the other obstacles on the forest floor. Leaves and branches struck both Alana and Erik in the face, leaving small but stinging cuts.

"What are we doing?" she had to shout over the sound of the horse's hoof beats as they raced through the forest.

"We're almost there!"

Alana saw the trees thin out, and that they were coming toward a sheer cliff wall. There was a small waterfall on one side of the cliff, emptying into a creek that ran past the wall and out of sight. Raven slowed and cantered through the water, sending water droplets spraying on all sides and all over Erik and Alana. Through the spray Alana glimpsed an opening in the cliff wall. A cave.

Raven slowed to a walk and entered the cave as the sun rose higher in the sky. She walked through a tunnel. It was dark inside the cave, but there were holes scattered in the cave ceiling, letting in just enough light for Alana to see. Once they were far enough from the entrance, Erik made Raven stop. He dismounted, took the sack and case from Alana, and helped her down from the horse's back.

He sank to the floor and Alana leaned against the cave wall, both of them realizing how tired they were. Normally this was when Alana would be waking up. "Now what on earth was all that for?" she asked, annoyed. "What are we doing out here in this silly cave?"

Erik didn't answer.

"Is it because you don't want to be out in the sun?"

Still no answer.

"Why does it even matter?"

_Still_ no answer. Alana thought for a moment, then exclaimed, "My God, you're not a vampire, are you?"

Erik shot her a look that said…well, she wasn't exactly sure what it meant, except that he was most definitely _not_ a vampire.

"All right, that was a silly thing to say. But in all seriousness, why are you so afraid of being in the sunlight?"

He sighed, and seemed to be lost in thought for a little while. "I just…haven't been out in the sun. Not for many, many years."

Alana didn't understand how he could stand living life always in the dark, or why the sun seemed to terrify him so much. "But why not?"

He sighed again and stopped to think. Then he said, "I have always worked at night. Ever since I was a small child. Going out in the sunlight now feels…" He searched for words but seemed unable to find them.

"I'm sure it would feel wonderful if you just became used to it." Alana got to her feet. "Come with me!"

Erik didn't move, so she ran over to him and took his hand. He immediately jerked it away.

"Come, Monsieur," she pleaded. "Sunlight is good for you. It will make you feel better."

"It will not," Erik said. "And I'm fine."

Alana knew there had to be other reasons for his not wanting to go out in the sun, but she didn't want to upset him any more, so she decided to drop the subject. She yawned, and realized that she'd stayed awake all night and much of the day before. With that realization she became even more exhausted. "I'm tired," she stated, yawning and stretching.

"So am I," Erik said.

"Sleeping on the stone floor in this dress should be interesting," said Alana, feeling a little irritable now that she was so tired.

"Here." Erik took off his cape with an elegant swish and handed it over to her.

The cape was long and wide, thick and warm. The floor didn't feel so hard at all now, and Alana was asleep in seconds.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Erik watched the girl sleep for a while, and envied her. He was exhausted, but sleep would not come. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw _her._ And other old faces, ghosts of the past. Faces from the opera house, faces from the traveling fair, and other, even older faces. He saw his mother, drinking and shouting at him. But worst of all were the faces of the Vicomte de Chagny and his bride-the only woman Erik had ever loved and would ever loved. Their young, attractive faces grew twisted with hatred and spite, and they laughed at him, yelling out taunts and insults Then the faces disappeared, leaving only Christine. She was so, so _present_ that Erik almost believed she was standing there with him. She no longer mocked him; she stood there, looking at him. She was weeping. The sight of her broke Erik's heart. He got to his feet, wanting to wrap her in his arms and comfort her, but there was no one there. Nothing but the empty air.

He decided to go for a walk, hoping to clear his head.


	7. A Friend and a Teacher

Chapter Seven

_A friend is someone who knows the song in your heart and can sing it back to you when you have forgotten the words. -_Anonymous

_In learning you will teach, and in teaching you will learn-_Latin proverb

A Friend and a Teacher

Alana could have slept for hours and hours, but something pulled her from her dreams and she woke. She soon realized she was alone in the dim cave chamber. _Where's Erik? _she immediately wondered, and then she heard singing. A man's voice, deep but beautiful. The sound was haunting, full of sorrow.

Erik.

She got to her feet and set off through the cave tunnels, trying to follow the sound of the voice and find him. It was difficult; she was walking through a labyrinth of faintly lit tunnels and his voice echoed through all of them. She knew she was getting closer though when she was able to distinguish the words of the song he was singing:

_Think of me_

_Think of me waking silent and resigned_

_Imagine me_

_Trying too hard to put you from my mind_

_Recall those days, look back on all those times_

_Think of the things we'll never do_

_There will never be a day when I won't think of…_

Suddenly the singing stopped, but Alana was close enough now and when she turned a corner, she found Erik. He was lying on the ground, his whole body shaking as he wept uncontrollably.

"Oh my goodness! Erik! Are you all right?" Alana asked as she hurried to his side. _Stupid question_, she thought to herself. He was clearly not all right. She sat down next to him. He was lying on his side and she couldn't see his face, just the mask he wore. There were tears in the eye she could see, and they were both underneath the mask and running down it. Alana thought it would be best for him if she took it off while he cried, but she didn't dare remove it now. However, he hadn't acknowledged her presence at all; he just kept sobbing, holding the ring around his neck tightly with both hands.

"There, there," Alana said softly, putting a hand on his shoulder. She felt him flinch, then actually relax a little at her touch. "It's all right. Don't worry. I'm here." She rubbed his shoulder gently. He still wept, and her heart broke for him. The elegant, aloof, talented, impressive, strong-tempered man she had met was gone, and in his place was a small, fragile _child_. "It's all right," she whispered. "I'm here. I'm your friend. You're going to be all right."

Slowly, the sobbing grew slower and his body relaxed. His iron grip on the diamond ring loosened, and Alana took his hand. To her surprise, his hand enveloped hers and he gave it a little squeeze. Alana found herself smiling, and continued rubbing his shoulder with her other hand and whispering words of comfort to him. Finally, she felt him start to stir, and she moved back a bit to give him some space, but she couldn't go far. He still held her hand, more tightly than before. Erik sat up, smoothing his dark hair with one hand, then rubbing his right eye and wiping away whatever tears were left on his face and neck. His eyes were swollen from crying, and his face was red and splotched, but in spite of all this Alana noticed that he was still handsome. _Extremely_ handsome. The hand he was holding grew hot, and she felt that electric feeling she'd felt that first night she'd spent at his house, when she was sick. She felt almost feverish again now.

Erik sighed, seeming to gather what inner strength he had, and he opened his blue-green eyes. "Thank you," he whispered, gazing intently at her. Alana felt all warm inside, but cold as well, as if she were happy and yet, afraid of something.

"You're welcome, Monsieur," she said, smiling. "It was nothing, really."

"Call me Erik," he said, the ghost of something like a smile passing briefly over his lips. "And it was most definitely _not _nothing." He took her hand in both of his and this time, Erik smiled.

_Erik looked back through time and saw his younger self, and his mother. At the moment her bottles of alcohol were set aside, and she sat in front of the one small mirror she had, arranging her hair and putting on dark, heavy makeup, wearing a rather flamboyant, low-cut red dress that looked to be a few sizes too small. She noticed him watching her and scowled._

"_What are you looking at?"_

_Little Erik shook his head. "Nothing."_

"_Well, I have to go meet a very important client soon, so why don't you run along and play with your friends while I'm gone?"_

_Erik just looked confused._

"_Oh, that's right," his mother laughed. "You don't have any friends!"_

_He shrank back into a dark corner of the room, where he knelt on the floor and hugged his knees._

"_Never had any, and never will! No one in their right mind would ever want to be a friend to a freak like you!" She threw her head back and laughed again, as little Erik bowed his head and rocked slowly back and forth, trying not to listen to her._

_The older Erik looked at his mother and this time, he laughed at her. She'd always thought she was right about everything, and as a child he had always believed she was, too. For the most part, he still did. But this time, this one, sweet, precious time, she was wrong. Dead wrong. Because just a few moments ago, someone had said words his mother had told him he would never hear._

"_I'm your friend."_

Erik let Alana lead him back through the tunnels to where they had stopped earlier. His head was spinning. He couldn't believe what he'd heard, and yet the expression on Alana's face, the meaning in her words, and the feeling of her hand in his couldn't be doubted. She was his friend. And he was hers.

He was in awe of the emotions washing over him. His heart felt so much lighter, the dark music in his head faded into new songs of celebration, with words he couldn't quite understand yet, but he had hope he could understand them in time. Hope. That was something new as well. Hope had somehow awakened inside of him for the first time in his life. Alana had found him at one of his weakest points, and somehow she had known exactly what she needed to do, and more importantly, what to _say_ to him. Her words had burned, with a heavenly warmth, into his broken heart and made their way down, down, into a deep part of his soul that he'd longed to forget. A place where a small, lonely child, crying alone in the darkness, suddenly looked up from his sorrow and rose to his feet. There was a light in the window, and as the little boy moved towards it, his tears vanished and a smile spread across his face.

"Erik?"

He suddenly came back to the present. They'd returned to the cave chamber where they had left their things, and Alana was looking up at him, concerned. "Are you all right?"

He nodded, feeling new strength surge through him. For the first time in his life he felt…not alone. "I've never been better," he said, meaning every word.

"Good." Alana smiled. She had such a charming little smile, but like him, she rarely used it. Like him, she had led a troubled life of sadness and fear. And maybe, he could help her like she had helped him. Maybe. Though his new friendship…he loved that word…had suddenly made his world a better place, he knew he was still plagued by self-doubt. Would Alana still call him a friend if she knew what he really was? He didn't want to think about it, and tried his best to banish the darker thoughts with the new music in his head, but the doubts still crept through the depths of his mind, trying to poison his happiness. For now, however, he refused to let that happen.

"Where did Raven go?" Alana asked, gesturing at the empty cave chamber.

"She probably left to graze," Erik said, unconcerned. "Or to get water. She won't be far off."

Alana nodded, and her foot touched the wooden case they had brought. She knelt, and ran her hands over it. "What's in here?"

"This," Erik replied, kneeling beside her, "is one of my most prized possessions."

Alana pulled her hands back immediately.

"No, it's all right," Erik said. "I'll show you." He opened the case, revealing a small violin, immaculately polished. He took it out and cradled it in his hands, running his hands over the smooth, shining wood with an expression on his face like that of a parent holding a beloved child.

Alana looked closer at the instrument. "It's beautiful," she said. Then her gaze fell upon some small writing on the violin. She squinted in the dim light to get a better look, then gasped. "Oh my goodness! It's a Stradivarius!"

Erik smiled again. "Yes, it is."

"Wow," she said. "I've never seen one before. It must have cost a fortune!"

Erik nodded. "Yes, a small fortune. But worth that and more. This violin has gotten me through so much, and it plays better than any other instrument I have ever had."

"Can you play something now, then?" Alana asked. She had never heard a Stradivarius, or heard Erik play before.

Erik nodded and took the bow from the case. "What would you like to hear?"

Alana shrugged. "Anything."

He thought for a moment. In most cases, he would have selected a melancholy piece of classical music, or one of his own gloomy compositions, but now, for once, he felt like playing something lighthearted, uplifting. It was hard to come up with such a piece, since most of his repertoire was depressing, but eventually, a song he had overheard being played inside a church during his childhood came to his mind, and he brought the bow to the strings, and began to play.

As he played, he kept his eyes closed, letting the music take him away to another place as it always did. There was nothing he loved more than to lose himself in a song. When he finished, he opened his eyes to find Alana beaming at him and clapping her hands. Was that the glimmer of a tear in her eye?

"That was beautiful, Erik! I've always loved that song. It's my favorite by Bach."

Erik nodded. "Thank you. I'm glad you liked it. Yes, 'Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring' is a wonderful piece of music. I regret not playing it more often. I don't believe I have played that song in many, many years."

"Really? And yet you still played it so well, better than anyone I've ever heard! You should be out there, in the Paris music halls, in the theaters of other cities and countries! You're good, Erik. So good."

"Thank you," Erik said a bit stiffly. Once she started talking about him giving performances, he had paled a little and felt like he was going to be sick.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

"Yes," he said firmly, recovering immediately and putting the violin away. "Now we had better go back to the cart. The sun is bound to have set by this time."

When they came out of the cave, the sun was almost out of sight, but a haze of pink and orange and a bit of blue still hung in the sky. Alana caught her breath. "It's pretty, isn't it?"

Erik knew she was trying to get a reaction out of him. "Yes it is," he agreed, but he said nothing more.

Raven was grazing on the other side of the creek, like he had predicted, so he called her over and they rode her back to where they had left the cart. The forest road was remote and usually empty of travelers, so the supplies they'd left behind were untouched. In no time at all, they were on their way to Paris again.

"So," Erik said, noticeably startling Alana with his first attempt to make conversation. "You have heard me sing, you have read some of my music, and you have heard me play."

"Yes, I have," Alana said. He could tell she was getting nervous, afraid where he was going with this conversation.

"Do you sing?" he asked, genuinely interested.

"Oh, no," she said dismissively. "I mean, I sing sometimes when I'm alone, but never around other people. I'm not very good."

"How do you know?"

"I don't know." She blushed. "I just know I can't sing."

"Everyone can sing," Erik insisted, finding it hard to conceal his amusement.

"You wouldn't say that if you heard me." Alana played with the locket around her neck, visibly anxious.

"I haven't heard you. Sing a song that's important to you."

"I can't!"

"Sing." Erik spoke softly, the word sounding like a request and a command at the same time. She _would_ sing for him.

Alana sighed. "All right. My mother, before she died, used to plant a garden every year, and we would tend the herbs and flowers together in springtime. And there was a song she taught me. She said it was a very old song from her homeland."

"Sing it for me."

Somehow, Alana found herself unable to refuse him. She took a deep breath, and dared to sing the first verse.

_Are you going to Scarborough Fair?_

_Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme_

_Remember me to one who lives there_

_He once was a true love of mine…_

She stopped.

"Is that all?" Erik asked.

She shook her head. "No, there's several more verses of it."

"Then sing them."

She rolled her eyes.

"Please."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Reluctantly, she began to sing again, but as she continued to sing the other verses, memories of her and her mother in the garden, singing the song together came to her mind, and she sang with emotion. She sang with the happiness she remembered, and the sadness she felt as she reflected on how she could no longer be with her mother like that. As she sang, she forgot about Erik completely, but when she was finished, she came back to reality and couldn't help but make a face. Her singing was pathetic compared to Erik's.

He was looking at her-his expression had grown a little brighter. He nodded slightly to her. "How do you think you sang?"

Alana covered her face with her hands, embarrassed. "Not nearly as well as you."

"You are a better singer than you think you are. With a bit of training, you could become very good indeed. And the song…" His face continued to light up. "…was beautiful. Simple, yet complex. Wonderful, timeless melody. Tell me," he said, intrigued. "Do you know why the names of the herbs are repeated?"

Alana thought for a moment. "Well, no one knows for sure…the song is very old…but my mother said that in her homeland the four herbs were symbols, and together they were said to have magical abilities."

"What do they mean?" He asked, very curious.

She recalled her mother's words. "She said that parsley will take away any bitterness. Sage brings strength. Rosemary represents many things-faithfulness, love, and remembrance. It also stands for prudence and sensibility. It's a symbol of love-like love grows slowly, so it grows slowly, but once it is fully grown it is very strong. And finally there's thyme. Thyme symbolizes courage."

Erik nodded slowly, looking deep in thought. "Very interesting. Do you believe all that? That they are magical?"

"That's what my mother always said. She told me that they are not magical in themselves, but the virtues they symbolize are. They can bring two people together in love- a love that lasts forever." Alana sighed. "It certainly did for her. She loved my father so much…but you know what happened to my family in the end. So, I don't really know if I believe in any of that anymore."

Erik was silent, and a faraway look came into his eyes. Though he typically tried to keep his true feelings to himself, Alana could see the emotions, thoughts, and memories rising up inside of him. If eyes truly were a window to the soul, then Erik's was a deep, mysterious place.

"Do you really think I can sing?" Alana broke the silence.

"Yes. There is a nice tone to your voice, but you have a bit of trouble with your pitch, and staying in the appropriate key. And your vibrato…you must do something about that."

"Oh." Her face grew hot with embarrassment.

"But with training, you could be a wonderful singer."

Alana grinned. "Really? I could really be a good singer?"

"Better than good."

"Then I suppose I need a teacher. I would love to get better…could _you_ teach me?"

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Erik's world froze over. It was true, Alana's voice was good, but she definitely needed a teacher. He knew he had the ability to make her into a phenomenal singer, but he couldn't. He could not teach again. He could not have a relationship like that with someone again. Not after everything had gone so terribly wrong before.

And yet, he wanted to help her. She said they were friends, something that no one had ever said to him before, and he had missed having someone with him, to sing with, and to have someone to share with him in the music he heard in his head. Deep down, he felt that just maybe, Alana could understand that music, but he wondered if he would help her or harm her. Everything he had ever done had ultimately ended in failure. It was foolish to even imagine that this time would be different. But Alana had music inside of her. He could feel it. It called to him, was something he longed to hear. He could not ignore it.

"Hello? Erik?" Alana's voice broke through his reverie. "You looked like you were off in your own world again. Are you all right?"

"Yes," he said. "I will teach you."


	8. Attacked

Chapter 8

_Be assured those will be thy worst enemies, not to whom thou hast done evil, but who have done evil to thee. - _Tacitus

Attacked

For what felt like hours, Alana practiced her singing with Erik as they drove along the lonely road under the stars. He made her sing "Scarborough Fair" over and over, stopping her when she sang incorrectly and explaining what the problem was and how to correct it. Then he would sing the verse to her, in his soft yet powerful voice that sounded like something from a dream, and she would find herself singing back to him in the right key, with perfect pitch. In no time, she had mastered the song and could sing every line without making a single mistake. She had no idea she was able to learn so quickly. Erik confessed that he could not do as much at the time as he wished; he would have liked to play an instrument to accompany her, and he wanted to teach her to read music, but he had to drive the cart so that would have to wait. In the meantime, he taught her other songs and they practiced together.

He was so authoritative on the subject of music, Alana thought. From what little she had seen of him, he had seemed for the most part unsure and reluctant about many things. But when he was making music or even talking about it, he was home. His eyes got brighter and his speech grew less forced as he taught her some of the things he knew. Alana could tell he had an incredible wealth of knowledge and that he loved sharing it, maybe even delighted in it, and she wondered if he'd ever trained any others before. He couldn't possibly have trained anyone in Détente. No one had even known he was there in that little house. She would have asked him about it, but she couldn't get a word in as he was constantly telling her about the rules of music, or one of his favorite composers. In fact, it was hard to remember any thoughts she'd had while he was talking; it was as if his voice completely filled her mind, demanding her respect and attention, and the moment he opened his mouth to sing, he became the only person in the world. His voice had a strange but wonderful hypnotic effect to it, and soon Alana lost track of time or place.

Finally, they stopped at a stream so Raven could get a drink of water, and they could stretch their legs a little. Alana found herself feeling a little lightheaded and disoriented. She drank deeply from a canteen of water they had brought and tried not to stare at Erik, who incidentally was looking at her, slightly concerned, something of his old melancholy expression returning to his face.

"Is something wrong?" They both said at the same time.

"No." They also said at the same time. Alana laughed, and Erik looked a little less gloomy. Her lightheadedness faded almost instantly.

Neither one of them spoke for a while, and Erik kept watching the landscape around them. They had just come out of the forest and now the road stretched on through a series of gently rolling hills covered with tall grass and lit by the brightness of the night's full moon. He appeared to be listening, too, but for what Alana didn't know. She couldn't hear anything

Suddenly there was a rustle in the grass. Then, large, rough hands grabbing her around the waist. She screamed, and struggled to break free, but the hands seized her wrists and twisted her arms back painfully. She could feel hot breath on the back of her neck.

While she was struggling, four other men had come charging out of the tall grass. One went for Raven and the cart, but the black horse, panicked by the commotion and the perception that the man was her master's enemy, galloped off at full speed, pulling the cart of supplies with her. The men started shouting and cursing in a language Alana didn't understand. She saw all four of them surround Erik, brandishing clubs and knives.

Alana kept fighting the man who had hold of her, but with her arms twisted back behind her, wrists locked and being crushed by his iron grip, she couldn't get away. He started dragging her back with him into the tall grass, moving back toward the forest.

"Help me!" She tried to scream, but, choked with fear, the sound was little more than a loud, gasping whisper. She could see Erik and the other attackers, glimpsed Erik dodge a blow to the head from one man's club, spin around him almost invisibly fast, and deck the man in the back of the head with a powerful blow, sending him crumpling to the ground.

Suddenly the grip on her wrists loosened. The man who had her must have seen his companion fall and feared for the other's life. She ran forward, picking up her skirts, but she was too slow, and too soon, her captor caught her again. This time, he spun her around. It was dark, but she could see his long black hair, scruff of a beard, and tanned skin, a gold tooth glinting inside his mouth. He laughed in her face.

"You put up a good fight," he said in heavily accented French. "But give up." He let go of one of her wrists and caressed her face. Only for a moment, because Alana quickly brought up her hand to slap his cheek, but he caught it and laughed again. "Don't fight. It will make things much…easier." He pulled her along with him once more. Alana struggled the entire way, straining to break free, dragging her feet on the ground to slow him down, but nothing worked. She craned her neck to look behind her…Erik would save her, just like last time.

But she couldn't see him. The other attackers were standing around something. Something she knew had to be his body lying on the ground. She screamed.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Erik kept his eyes closed, trying not to think about the throbbing pain in his head, waiting for the perfect moment to attack. He didn't have long to wait; he had to go back and get Alana before the other man did anything to hurt her. One of the thieves had hit him in the head with a club _hard. _But not hard enough. They thought they had knocked him senseless, and stood over him, chattering in their language, a language he happened to understand.

It was the same gypsy tongue he had been spoken to in and learned to speak during his childhood, when he'd been with the nightmarish traveling fair.

"All right, we've knocked him out, let's take these fancy clothes of his and meet back up with Guaril."

"And the girl."

They all laughed. Erik seethed with rage. He had an idea of what they were planning to do with her, and he _had_ to stop them. He prepared to attack.

"What was he doing, going to a masked ball?" another said, still laughing. "Let's take this first."

Erik felt the hands touch his mask, and almost involuntarily his own hand came up, seizing the other man's, and, with a horrific crunching, snapping sound, he crushed it completely. The man stumbled back, falling to his knees and screaming in agony. His companions backed away for a second, staring with him at his destroyed hand.

"What are you waiting for you fools?" The fallen thief shouted. "Kill the bastard!"

Meanwhile, Erik had gotten to his feet, but he was weakened from the many blows he'd already received, and the men fell upon him so suddenly and violently that he was tackled back to the ground. One thief, a younger man, leaped on top of him, hitting him over and over again with his fists. Erik managed to reach out and grab hold of the man's neck, squeezing as hard as he could. But that took up both of his hands, so as the young thief, choking for breath, reached out to pull the mask off his face, Erik could not stop him. The mask was ripped off, landing in the grass beside him.

Erik froze. Panic. Fear. Shame. Rage.

The man on top of him pried himself free from Erik's grip, which had suddenly loosened. He just stared into Erik's deformed face, but the others screamed.

"It's a monster!"

"Look at that!"

One made a sign of the cross.

"Let's kill him!"

"No let's keep him. We can sell him to a circus, or keep him ourselves and charge people to look at him!"

"Quiet!" shouted the young man who'd ripped the mask off. "I recognize this one." The thief's eyes blazed with hatred, and Erik suddenly recognized him, sending a new torrent of fiery rage blazing through his body. "He _was_ with a circus. Years ago. My father's. _He's _the monster who killed my uncle!" He spat in Erik's face. "I'll kill him myself. Somebody, give me a knife! I want to cut his throat and see his blood spill onto the grass!"

"No, Emilian! He's worth too much money to us alive!"

Something inside of Erik snapped. They would not take him. He threw the thief off of him, sending him flying into the air. He charged at another, but the man just panicked and ran away. He seized the nearest thief by the arm, lifting him up with one hand and flipping him to the ground. That man, relatively unhurt but terrified at the sight of the unmasked, deformed Erik in all his fury, ran off too, along with the man with the broken hand. That left Emilian, standing up where he had fallen, holding a wicked-looking knife.

"You killed my uncle." His voice shook with fear and loathing. "Everyone said you put a curse on the circus, too, with your devil's magic. After you took off, most of us grew sick."

"You were already _sick_. All of you, long before I left." Erik came closer to Emilian, towering over him.

"Don't try to make yourself out to be the victim here! We were just simple people, trying to make an honest living. You were always a problem, always trying to escape, always fighting…"

"I was a prisoner!"

"…most of us ended up dying in the outbreak," Emilian continued. "You cursed them. You killed my uncle, and you killed the others too!"

Erik lunged at him. In no time, he'd thrown Emilian to the ground, delivered a painful kick to his opponent's side, and taken his knife. "Then I suggest," he snarled, pointing the knife at him, "you take this opportunity to avoid their fate." He pointed in the direction the other thieves had gone. "GO!" he roared.

Eyes wide with terror but still burning with hate, Emilian got to his feet and ran off.

Erik let out a deep breath, and whistled as loud as he could for Raven. She wouldn't have gone far even in her fear. Then he turned his attention to his missing mask. It was somewhere in the grass. He had to get it back. He crawled back and forth on the ground, searching, feelings of desperation rising up inside him. He had to get it back before his horse came. He had to. He needed to rescue Alana. She couldn't see him. Where was the cursed thing?

Hoofbeats. Raven was coming, galloping towards him as quickly as she could pulling the cart behind her. Suddenly his gaze fell on something white. There, in the tall grass! He seized the mask and put it on. Raven skidded to a stop, and Erik unhitched her faster than he ever had in his life. He sprinted to the cart, hurriedly took his sword from one of the bags, leapt onto Raven's back, and kicked her into a gallop, urging her for more and more speed.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

After seeing Erik on the ground, surrounded by the murderous thieves, Alana's struggling had only grown more frantic and violent. They'd probably killed him, and she would be stuck out here in the middle of nowhere, with this criminal who would do God knows what to her, maybe even kill her too. She started crying, pleading with her captor to let her go; he only laughed in her face again. But she wasn't going down without a fight. She slowed him down as much as she could, planting her feet firmly on the ground. Or she constantly moved, dragging her feet, planting them firmly on the ground, charging forward and pushing him into trees when she could, tripping him, anything she could do. Now, Alana quickened her stride and rammed him into a tree trunk with all her might. He hit his head hard, cursing. He dropped Alana's wrists.

Free.

She took off running, picking up her skirts and sprinting as fast as she could through the undergrowth. Thorns and branches tore at her dress, ripping the soft fabric, and cutting the skin on her arms. She could hear the man running after her and forced herself to speed up.

Suddenly, she saw the four other men tearing through the woods straight toward her. She stopped, panicking for a brief moment, then ran left, but her moment of hesitation was her undoing. Her captor caught up to her and grabbed her again, shouting something triumphantly at his friends, who, strangely, looked like scared children.

It didn't take long to see why. Alana heard the hoof beats before she saw him. The five men that had been so terrifying at first were shaking in their boots now. Then, Raven burst through the dark forest, with Erik on her back, a sword held high in his right hand. His expression was pure rage and determination. Alana's heart soared. Erik wasn't dead. He'd come back for her. She'd never been so happy to see anyone.

However, it was a different story for the five terrified thieves. One, who had an injured hand that now just hung limp, actually whimpered. Raven came to a stop, Erik pointed his sword at the men, and the four who'd fought him before stepped back, shouting something frantic at the man who still held Alana. Immediately, he let her go, and she ran to Raven's side, realizing for the first time that she was trembling uncontrollably, tears running down her face. She patted the horse's neck, taking deep, gasping breaths and trying to calm herself down. It was all over, and she was safe now. Once again Erik had saved her. She looked up and opened her mouth to thank him, but he was already speaking.

He was talking, no, shouting, in a foreign language, the same one the thieves used. They stood, silently, wincing and cringing at the harsh words, all looking very frightened except for the youngest one. He glared darkly at Erik with pure hatred but was unable to stop himself from shaking where he stood. Erik spoke slower, quieter, pointing his sword at each thief in turn, then suddenly began shouting again, making the whole forest echo with his voice. With a flourish, he pointed his sword to the sky dramatically and thundered a few final, foreign words. Then all five men took off running like the devil himself was at their heels. They were out of sight within moments.

Alana breathed a sigh of relief and heard Erik do the same. She looked up at him. "Thank you," she whispered, having trouble finding her voice.

"It was nothing," Erik said, taking her hand and pulling her up behind him onto the horse. "Now hang on." He told Raven to walk, and they set off at a relaxing pace. Alana put her arms around his waist and rested her chin on his shoulder, exhausted but feeling exhilarated after all the adrenaline of that night.

"Are you all right?" His voice had become velvety again and almost honey-sweet, in stark contrast to the harsh tone he had used when shouting at the thieves.

"I'm a little shaken, but I'll be all right in a while," Alana said honestly. "I wish I could say more, but all I can say is thank you, so much. Once again, you saved my life."

"It is an honor to protect a friend," Erik's voice was calm, but Alana could feel him shaking too, most likely from the adrenaline. "You don't have to thank me."

"But I want to," Alana smiled. "What about you? Are you all right?"

"Yes," Erik answered quickly and firmly, but she had seen him. He had a bloody nose and a gash to the left of his exposed eyebrow, and probably many more wounds from kicks and punches he'd gotten in the fight. His mask was stained with dirt and blood, a grim, unnerving sight.

"Are you sure of that?" She made sure he didn't miss her doubtful tone.

"I will be fine. I had hoped we wouldn't have to stop in any of the small towns on the way to Paris, but by the looks of it we will not reach the city for a while, and you could use some rest. I can tell you are still badly shaken...what did that man do to you?"

She shook her head. "Nothing. I kept fighting him, and even escaped from him a few times, so by the time you showed up, he hadn't had time to do anything. I was so afraid, though. I saw you on the ground and I thought you might be dead…"

"You believed those petty thieves could kill me?" Erik's tone was incredulous but amused.

"I didn't know," Alana said. "I should have known you would send them off running like frightened little children! What on earth did you say to them in that language? What language was it?"

"Just a little _motivational _speech in their own gypsy dialect," Erik said calmly.

"How do you know that language?"

"I…" he hesitated. "…I lived and traveled with some gypsies during my childhood, and I picked up the language."

"Lived with the gypsies?" How interesting. What other kinds of adventures had Erik had in his life? "What was it like?"

After a long while Erik finally said in a strange, dark tone, "Like nothing I can describe, and like nothing you can possibly imagine."

Neither one spoke for the rest of the night. They were both too exhausted, and Erik's words had undoubtedly ended all conversation anyway. Once they had returned to the cart and Raven was hitched up again, they set off for the main road and the nearest town in silence.


	9. The Phantom Returns

Chapter Nine

_"I'm not, I'm not myself, feel like I'm someone else, fallen and faceless, so hollow, hollow inside. A part of me is dead, need you to live again. Can you replace this? I'm hollow, hollow and faceless..."_- RED

The Phantom Returns

The drive seemed to last forever. Out of the corner of his eye, Erik could see that Alana had fallen asleep sitting up beside him. He was thankful for that, because at some point on the night's journey he'd realized he had absolutely no idea where he was going…she didn't need to know that. He feared they had taken a wrong turn at some point after their encounter with the five thieves, and he wasn't sure where they would end up. One thing he did know was that they would not be in Paris by tomorrow, or maybe even the day after that. He reached into his cloak and pulled out his pocket watch. Four in the morning. Like Alana, he too was exhausted, and every bone in his body ached from the fight, from far too many hard hits he'd taken all over, especially his head. It felt like it was taking hits over and over again with one of the thieves' clubs.

Suddenly he noticed lights on the horizon, and he breathed a sigh of relief. A city, closer and closer with every minute. Not Paris, he knew, but what was it? Soon he began to see signs signaling their approach to the city of Rouen. He realized with an unpleasant feeling in his stomach that he had been to Rouen once, long ago, when he had been with the traveling fair. He was kept locked up the entire time and never got a chance to see the beauties of the city. It was the historic capital city of Normandy…so that was the region of France he had been in for the past months…and the home of many beautiful sights he wouldn't be able to see. If he ventured out into the city, he knew people would stare at him, mask or no mask, and they would be wary or even afraid of him. He couldn't stand the feeling of being watched; something he always felt when he was among other people or out in the bright light of day. When the sunlight shone down on him, he had this strange, terrifying feeling of someone, somewhere, watching him, with eyes that burned like sunrays straight through his skin and into his soul. In the light, he was safe from no one. He hadn't been in the sun since his childhood, and though he hated the day, he longed to be free, no longer confined to the night.

"Alana." The girl still slept. "Alana," he repeated. This time she opened her eyes.

"Yes?" she answered sleepily. By now they had entered Rouen. The city was asleep, but the empty cobblestone road was lit by streetlamps, bathing the empty streets in a glow that was both lovely and a bit eerie. "Oh." Alana looked around. "Where are we?"

"This is Rouen," Erik said. "Keep your eyes open for an inn with a stable."

"All right." Alana scanned the streets diligently along with Erik, and soon they came upon Le Maison D'accueil, a charming old hotel that was several stories high and looked very expensive.

Erik pulled Raven to a halt, and got down from the cart, going around to the back and rummaging through his things. He pulled out a small bag of money and handed it to Alana. "Here's what we're going to do. You will go and pay for two rooms and a stall and place to keep a cart. While you're doing that, I will get Raven adequately situated. When I am finished and when you have the keys to the rooms, go into my room and open the window. I will be up as soon as I can."

Alana looked bemused. "That's quite an elaborate plan for getting into your hotel room. What are you planning to do, come in through the window?"

Yes, that had been the plan. He didn't like her sarcastic tone and the fact that she was obviously trying to hold back laughter, so he didn't answer.

"Erik, why can't you just walk through the doors and across the hall to your room? Surely you don't need to go in through the window." Now she was looking at him like he was insane. He did realize, of course, that not many people could possibly be around to see him at four in the morning, but the desk clerk would be there. He didn't want the desk clerk to see him. The thought filled him with panic. He felt like a fool for being so afraid; how could he tell Alana that he, a grown man, was afraid to go any place where there might be a stranger? What would she think of him? What did she think of him now, for that matter? She probably thought he was a lunatic. Yes, she had said they were friends, but maybe that was just because she was grateful to him for saving her life, or because she'd felt sorry for him when she'd witnessed that terrible, humiliating breakdown of his at the cave.

"Erik? You look worried." She looked worried too, concerned about him.

"I'm fine," he said, but he could tell she didn't believe him. He sighed. "You should go now."

She nodded, and went into the hotel with the bag of money. He patted Raven's neck and led her around the back to where the stables were.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Alana walked through the tall glass door into the hotel lobby, which was luxuriously furnished with elegant couches, chairs, and tables with bouquets of freshly cut flowers on each and every one of them. After spending the last several years in her increasingly dilapidated house with her father, and the last nights on the road, she felt as if she had died and gone to heaven. The clerk at the main desk also looked as if he had died, because she found him sprawled all over his desk, sound asleep.

"Sir?" This was certainly an awkward moment. "Sir? Excuse me." The man wouldn't wake up. "Excuse me!" she raised her voice, and banged on the desk with her fist. Loudly. The man jumped up.

"What? What? Oh!" He looked around in confusion. "My goodness! I must have dozed off! I'm so sorry, mademoiselle." Alana could see him looking her up and down. She probably looked frightful, with her dress all torn and stained. Her hair was probably a disaster as well. "You poor dear," he said. "What's a charming young thing like you doing out so late?"

"It's a long story," Alana said with a wry smile.

"I can believe it," the clerk replied. "Poor girl. You look as if you've had your fair share of trouble tonight, but don't worry, mademoiselle, you've come to the right place. How can Le Maison D'accueil serve you?" Gone was the sleepy confusion of a few moments ago, and in its place was caring, cheerful hospitality.

"I'd like two rooms please, and a place in the stables for my friend's horse and cart. He will be coming in shortly, I think. Are there any rooms available on the ground floor? I think that will be…easier for us."

"As a matter of fact, yes, we do have two available rooms on the first floor." Alana paid for the rooms and the stall for Raven, and the clerk handed over the keys. Just as she began to wonder if Erik truly intended to climb into his room through the window, she heard the door open, and saw a dark figure come in. The clerk jumped in his seat behind the desk. It was Erik, wearing his black cloak with the hood up, carrying some of their bags and his violin case. She glimpsed the desk clerk staring in alarm at the sight of the hotel's newest guest. He did look very intimidating, a tall, dark, mysterious man dressed all in black, face completely hidden by his hood. She had been startled at the sight of him too, and now found herself standing there, frozen. Something about his presence had changed since she'd seen him last, just a few minutes ago. Every fiber of his essence seemed to be saying _Stay away from me. Stay away from me. _Over and over again. The lobby had gone cold, and the darkness of his figure seemed to cast a shadow across the room. Stunned by the sudden change in Erik, Alana struggled for words.

"This…this is my friend," she managed to say. Immediately the room grew warmer, and Erik's presence became less forbidding. _How silly of me, _she thought to herself. _It's only Erik. Nothing to be afraid of. _She went up to him and gave him the key, then let him follow her down the colorfully carpeted hall to where their rooms were, smiling at the alarmed desk clerk on their way out.

"Have a…have a pleasant stay!" the worker called after them. "Remember, at Le Maison D'accueil, we treat all travelers like royalty!" He then muttered quietly, "Especially the prince of darkness himself!" The clerk chuckled at his own joke and added, shaking his head, "They don't call this the graveyard shift for nothing." He took out a book and began to read, highly doubting he would be falling asleep at his desk again that night.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

"That was quite an entrance you made back there," Alana remarked as they approached their rooms. "You even scared me a little, but at least you didn't come in through the window. What if someone had seen you? They would have thought you were a thief or murderer!"

_In that case, they would have thought correctly, _Erik thought bitterly. His heart was still pounding a little, for having to walk into that hotel lobby, having to endure that man staring at him in fear. Still, it hadn't been as bad as he'd initially thought, and he was glad that he had decided to come in through the front. Sometimes, like this minute actually, the fear he instilled in others had a strange, exhilarating effect on him. In those moments, he could do anything he wanted, and no one could stop him. Their fear made him stronger somehow.

He couldn't help but remember how he'd felt the night he'd attacked Joseph Buquet; the intensity of his rage and bloodlust mixing together with the terror of the drunken, perverted stagehand who was finally getting what he deserved, creating a wave of pulsing adrenaline that swallowed Erik up completely. Once the exhilaration had passed and he had made his exit after letting Buquet fall from the rafters for all to see, hanging from the rope until he died, he had felt a twinge of remorse. He had just killed someone.

But his guilt was quickly forgotten as he'd quickly made a plan to go up to the opera house roof; he'd had a feeling that Christine would retreat there as well to escape from the ensuing chaos after Buquet's death. Many times, she had gone up on that roof and he had always been there, hiding somewhere, and they would sing together. When she was exhausted and sad, tired of life and missing her father, he would sing soothing words of comfort to ease her pain, and he would hear how her sad voice changed and became full of joy again, and he would dream of the day when she would actually be able to look at him, and join him in his world of music and endless night.

That cold winter even, as Erik had hidden behind one of the giant statues and waited for her, he'd known that his plan for Christine and himself had not been going as smoothly as he had hoped, but that time, he felt sure he would be able to win her heart completely. He'd heard her voice approaching, felt the warmth and light of her presence brighten up the cold night, but everything froze over again when he'd heard another voice joined with hers. Raoul. That ignorant fool of a Vicomte, who had ruined everything.

Erik had always loved Christine, _before_ she became famous, and he always would love her. He was the one who was willing to spend countless hours teaching her and making her the best singer in all of Paris, he was the one who had gone to endless trouble to ensure that she would become a star no matter who or what was standing in her way. He was the one who would give anything for her.

He would kill for her.

And she had thrown his love away, tossed it aside like the red rose he'd watched fall into the snow.

When the two young lovers had left the rooftop, he'd knelt down where the rose lay. His heart broke in that moment. He'd taken the rose, and crushed it in his hand, desperately hoping to destroy with it the love he had for Christine, so he would be able to bear the weight of her rejection. But instead of dying, his love only grew stronger, morphing into something so insane, so powerful, that it had thoroughly taken over him.

"All right." Alana's voice cut through his brokenhearted memories, and he saw her looking up at him, worried again but trying not to show it. "I can see that you're not in one of your talking moods. We both need some rest now, so take care of yourself, and have a good night. Or rather, good morning…the sun will be up in an hour or two, actually." She sighed. "And now I'm just rambling. Um, when will I see you again? When do you think we'll start heading for Paris again?"

"Tomorrow night after sunset." Erik forced himself to say. "Rest well, Alana."

She gave him a little half-smile. "You, too." Then she went into her room and closed the door. She didn't seem to be quite as worried anymore, thankfully. He was trying his best to hide what he felt, but all the time he'd spent alone the past few months, with nothing but him and his dark thoughts and painful memories, had taken a toll on him. He needed to work on bringing back his old persona, the Phantom. The familiar old Phantom still lived inside of him, he knew; he hadn't totally died the day Christine ultimately chose Raoul over him. But he had retreated far back, somewhere deep inside Erik's soul, coming out at brief moments, but always fading back again into the shadows of Erik's troubled mind.

He went inside his room and took in the elegance around him: a giant feather bed, piled high with pillows and soft warm blankets, heavy floor-length velvet curtains, a couch and table and chairs, all made of the finest materials. The Phantom would have loved it here, but Erik just felt out of place in such a beautiful room. He walked up to the floor-length, gold-trimmed mirror that hung on the far wall next to the giant mahogany armoire. A faceless figure, ghostly, clothed in black instead of white, stood there in the glass reflection. It was no wonder he'd startled Alana and frightened the desk clerk; he looked like some terrible harbinger of doom. He put his hood down and took off his torn cape, throwing it into a chair. Without it, he still looked awfully frightening. On his good side, he had a black eye and a busted lip, and on the other side, his mask had dirt and bloodstains all over it. He looked at himself in disgust, and spent the next hour cleaning himself up. The hotel room had running water, something he hadn't seen in much too long. After a hot bath, a new mask and wig from one of the bags he'd brought, along with some powerful theater makeup to conceal his black eye, and a clean set of clothes, he looked again at himself in the mirror, and was impressed with what he saw.

From now on, he promised himself, he would no longer fear anything. He would no longer let his inner anguish make its way to the surface. He would be strong, he would be powerful again. People would be intrigued by him. They would respect him, fear him, and he would be able to make them do anything he wanted them to. He would still remain a mysterious creature of the night, not because he was afraid of other people, but because he enjoyed living that way.

As his thoughts raced, a voice came into Erik's mind that said, _You're only kidding yourself._

But he ignored it, his mind working at a feverish pace. No longer would he let insecurities and terrible memories torture him. He didn't need them. He was intelligent and talented. He could compose music and perform any piece ever created, he could sing, he could design, and he could perform incredible illusions. Gone was the scared, emotional, unstable, child-like Erik. He had always been strong, but now he was so much more than that. He was unstoppable.

Erik fastened his sword with the silver skull hilt in its scabbard at his belt, and pulled on another glorious full-length black cape. He glanced out the window. Still dark. There were a few final hours of precious nighttime left to revel in. Then he looked once again into the glass before him, and became somebody else.

The Phantom had returned.


	10. A Voice for the Centuries

Chapter Ten

_"I am the voice in the wind and the pouring rain, I am the voice of your hunger and pain. I am the voice that always is calling you, I am the voice, I will remain..." _-Celtic Woman

A Voice for the Centuries

It was unfortunate that he had so little time to see the sights of Rouen that night, the Phantom thought. He'd had to make a slight detour to the dress shop across the street from the hotel. Alana needed some new clothes after their encounter with those dreadful thieves, and the sign marked "Closed" and the locked front door was not enough to deter him. He always carried lock picks with him wherever he went, and even when he encountered doors that wouldn't respond to the lock pick, he knew they _would _respond to the right amounts of pressure in the right places. In this instance, he opened the lock easily with the pick and quickly entered the building, closing the door behind him. It was dark inside, but he found a gas lamp and lit it, and proceeded to look through the empty store like any normal human being would do during shop hours. Once he had found two nice-looking dresses that he knew would fit Alana, he pulled out a few hundred francs and placed them on the abandoned front desk for the shop workers to discover that morning. They were expensive dresses on their own, but he always liked to leave a little more than the items he took were worth. Besides, he had far more money than he knew what to do with. Erik found some boxes intended to put the dresses in, so he boxed them up as the workers would have, and left the store, leaving the lamp burning but locking the door behind him again.

He moved as quickly as he could through the city streets, trying not to limp. His body and his head still ached, but his newfound energy kept him going. Carrying the boxes with him and staying in the shadows, he made his way to the sight he wanted to see most of all before he left Rouen. Soon he was standing directly beneath the Rouen Cathedral, which looked spectacular and menacing in the darkness. It towered above him and the entire city, and he longed to enter the cathedral and see the beauty on the inside, but there wasn't time for that. He had to keep moving if he wanted to see anything else before the sun came up. He took a final, lingering look at the tallest building in all of France, one that he had always wanted to see, and continued on his way.

As he walked, he saw many wonderful buildings and admired their sometimes stunning, sometimes quaint architecture. He realized, with an odd feeling he hadn't gotten used to, that he was enjoying himself. He'd felt this feeling before, when he heard an exceptional piece of music, whenever he'd been with Christine and especially when he'd taken her to his lair for the first time, and also when Alana had called him her friend. Usually he only felt these pleasant feelings when he was deep in his world of music, but as he gazed at the charming city around him and remembered how he'd felt when Alana had said those words, he realized, perhaps for the first time, that the outside world wasn't always terrible. Sometimes it could be beautiful, too.

Of course, music still reigned supreme in his mind. Nothing on the planet could compare to the power music held over him. What joy, sorrow, pleasure, rage, and contentment it could instill in him! At times he could feel all of human emotion wrapped up into a piece of music, experiencing each one as it seemed he left the earth for a little while, entering another, special place. Without music, he was nothing. Music was the one thing that had kept him alive in all his miserable, lonely years. For him, music made the unbearable bearable.

Now he found himself standing before Rouen's own opera house. It was a magnificent building, but nothing compared to the one he had once called home, the one he had a faint hope of returning to someday. His thoughts drifted away…he longed to walk the familiar, sparkling halls, and the corridors of the catacombs, to spend countless hours playing his old organ and composing, to amuse himself by frightening the opera house's inhabitants into believing the place was haunted, to sit in his normal seat, Box Five, and to enjoy an opera being performed, be it a classic or one he had penned especially for the Opera Populaire under a false name. But, he thought bitterly, he couldn't do any of that anymore. The opera house had burned. He had burned it himself, destroying the one place he had grown to love.

Erik clenched his fists involuntarily, fighting off the depression that tried to creep inside. No. He would not let it in. Memories from the past had followed him throughout his journey with Alana, first with his breakdown at the cave and second, with the unexpected attack by the gypsies and among them, the appearance of Emilian, a face from the childhood he wished he could forget. There had also been numerous instances where something Alana had said had reminded him of a painful memory. But he refused to let his old experiences cripple him. No more. He tried to distract himself by examining the posters for upcoming productions at the Rouen Opera House. Perhaps he could come back someday and see a performance here, with Alana. She had probably never seen an opera before; he was certain she would love it. Then he encountered a poster that made his heart stop.

Large golden letters boldly announced "The Countess: A Voice for the Centuries," but Erik didn't see the words. His gaze was fixed on the portrait of the "Countess" and he could not look away. The deep brown eyes, that were still wonderful but not like he remembered, missing the depth of innocence, curiosity, and beauty that he had known and loved. The dark brown hair, the at-times wild curls pulled back in an elaborate style and decorated with shining jewels. The porcelain skin. The charming smile. The artist hadn't captured his subject's image quite correctly, but the face was still unrecognizable.

Christine.

He was overcome with emotion. He felt like he was choking. The world around him was spinning; he felt dizzy, sick to his stomach. His head hurt again, worse than ever. He gazed into the artist's rendition of Christine's eyes, desperately wishing he was looking into her real, gorgeous eyes. Slowly, Erik reached out his hand and touched the poster, stroking the image of her face on the canvas gently with his fingers. If he closed his eyes and imagined hard enough, he could make himself believe he was actually caressing her beautiful, sweet little face…

_Love._

The word repeated itself over and over in his head. That was what he felt.

_Love._

In spite of all the terrible things that had happened, he loved her. They had both betrayed each other; she had left him and chosen another man, and he had led her to believe he was something he was not, and eventually the truth had all come out, in front of the entire audience of the Opera Populaire.

But that didn't matter. None of it mattered. Nothing would ever change the fact that he loved her. Nothing could ever make him stop loving her. He would give anything to have her next to him now.

"Beautiful, isn't she?"

Erik started. He had been so lost in the image and his thoughts that he hadn't heard the short, stocky man dressed in shabby worker's clothes approach on his left side. His good side, he thought absently, making sure not to turn his head and reveal the mask he wore.

"Yes. She is."

"Ever seen her before?" the middle-aged man seemed bored, overly eager for conversation.

"Yes." There was so much emotion in that single word that the other man fell silent. Eventually Erik dared to ask the question, and though he had just sworn he would never fear anything again, he was afraid of the answer. "Is she…still here, in Rouen?"

Beside him, the worker shook his head sadly. "No. In fact I'm here to take this poster down and put up a new one. Pity. I'm Adrien, by the way. I work here at the opera house. I hear a lot of things. I heard that the Countess returned to her home in Paris with her husband. She'd been staying here in Normandy for the past few months, while all that Commune nonsense was going on in Paris, but since Versailles got the military involved, she and her husband must have figured it was safe to return home." He sighed. "It's such a shame, isn't it? The opera house never made so much money as when she was here. I would hear her sing, every night. People came from miles around. Hers truly is a voice for the centuries."

"Yes it is," Erik said. For once, he didn't mind talking to this stranger, since they were speaking of Christine. "Do you know who taught her to sing?"

"It must have been an incredibly gifted teacher," the man remarked, "but nobody knows who it was. The Countess won't tell anyone, either. I heard that whenever someone asks her, all she says is, 'I never knew his name'. _Very_ interesting, if you ask me."

Erik nodded in agreement, sending feelings of gratitude out to Christine, wherever she was now. He had begged her not to tell anyone what she knew about him, to speak of his secrets, and she hadn't. He loved her even more for that.

"Say…" there was a tone of curiosity in Adrien's voice. It was husky and rough, ruined by years of smoking, Erik could tell. "Have we met before?"

Feeling panicked all of a sudden but forcing himself to keep his composure, Erik said, "No, I don't believe we have." Oh God. What if this man knew who he truly was? Every fiber of Erik's being screamed to run, but the Phantom had control of the situation. He stood his ground, and acted as if nothing was the matter.

"Hmm." Adrien scratched his graying red beard. "I've definitely seen you before, somewhere. Come here often to see the shows? I always can recognize the regulars."

Erik decided to go along with that idea, still careful not to turn his head any further. "Yes, I come here often."

"Did you manage to get a seat to see the Countess sing? It was quite a show, very hard to get in, and expensive as anything."

"No. But I have seen her before."

"Something special, isn't she? The way you're looking at that poster, you must be a fanatic of hers. Maybe you can catch her in Paris."

"Perhaps." The thought of seeing her, hearing her sing, and maybe even speaking to her made him dizzy again.

"You know, I spoke to that husband of hers one night. He'd managed to break his seat in his box somehow, don't know how he did that."

Erik almost laughed at the thought.

"He's a vicomte, you know, so I had to make myself all good and respectful, but the whole time all I could think was, what a _fop_ this one is! Such an irritating man. I don't see why someone like the Countess would marry _him_." He elbowed Erik in the ribs. "She needs a _real _man by her side. Am I right or am I right?"

Strangely, almost feeling…glad…to encounter someone who shared in his loathing of the very foppish Vicomte de Chagny, Erik answered, "Very right indeed."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Alana slept fitfully, nightmares waking her from time to time. In her terrifying, long, drawn-out dreams, the thieves attacked her again, and this time Erik was nowhere to be found. They could do anything they wanted to her, and they did. She fought as hard as she could, but they were stronger. In one nightmare, she struck one of the thieves in the face, digging her nails into his skin and slashing across his cheek, sending him reeling back in pain. Then he came back after her, and this time, the man wore a different face.

Her father loomed over her, his face distorted with rage.

She woke in a cold sweat.

Someone was standing over her. She screamed. The person jumped back, and as her eyes came into focus in the dimly lit room, she realized it was Erik.

"Oh," she breathed, "it's only you."

"I came to bring you something," he said, gesturing toward a pair of flat boxes lying on a table. "I saw you having nightmares."

Alana nodded, embarrassed that he'd been watching her in her sleep, but strangely glad to see him first thing upon waking. It was quite unnerving, however.

"Were they about what happened last night? Are you sure that man didn't do anything to you?" Erik had come closer, standing over her again.

"No, he didn't do anything, but in my nightmares all of them were after me, and they did horrible things, and then one of them changed, and his face…his face became my father's…and this time you weren't there." She was trembling, almost on the verge of tears.

"I'm here now," Erik said softly in that deep, soothing, almost hypnotizing voice of his.

"Yes." Alana's hotel room was huge, but Erik seemed to fill up the entire space. She was so happy to see him, so glad he was with her now, making her feel better. All her fear slowly melted away in his warm presence. She wanted to reach out and hug him, but somehow she felt he wasn't exactly the hugging type, so she just said, "Thank you for staying with me."

"Not a problem," he replied in a silky tone.

Alana glanced up at the clock on the wall, squinting in the unlit room. "Oh my goodness, it's five o' clock! How could I have slept so long? We'll have to be on the road again in a few hours!"

"Most likely not," Erik said, moving to the other side of the room, toward the big window with its curtains drawn. He began to open the curtains. _What's he doing? _Alana thought. _He hates the sun._

But the window scarcely let any light in. It was pouring down rain outside. "Oh no."

"It's been raining all day, and shows no sign of stopping. We could be here at least another day," Erik said.

"Oh. Hmm. What are we going to do with all this time?" Alana wondered. "I, for one, should take a bath and go to that lovely little restaurant down the hall." Her stomach growled. Yes, that was definitely the plan; it felt like she hadn't eaten in forever. "Care to join me for dinner?"

Erik stared blankly at her for a second. "No."

Alana's heart sank, but he had reacted as expected. She sighed. "Very well. Would you like me to bring you something then?"

"If you wish." Here he was, being all aloof again. His manner was so cold, and yet his presence was making the room hotter. "The money I gave you is sitting on the table next to the boxes."

"Thank you."

Erik nodded to her and went to the door, opening it. "If you should need me, I will be in my room." And with a sweep of his cape, he was gone. As soon as the door closed, Alana felt as if she had awoken from another dream. There was that light-headed feeling again. She looked across the room at the two boxes on the table, and curiosity seized her.

She got out of bed, made her way over, and slowly lifted the lid on the first box. Could it be? It was another new dress of white and rose pink, even finer than the tattered blue thing she still wore ever was. Inside the other was a royal purple gown, more beautiful still. She held both dresses up to her, one after the other. Both seemed like they would be perfect fits. How did Erik do it? Rather, how could he afford such fine dresses as the three he'd bought for her? He tossed around his money like it were nothing. _Where has all that money come from? _She wondered.

After cleaning herself up-the warm bath felt glorious after the previous days' adventures-and putting on the purple dress, Alana made her way down the hall to the hotel restaurant. She felt odd going to eat alone, and she got several stares from other guests and some workers as she was seated by the window, making her even more uncomfortable. Still, she made herself smile and act decent, maybe even a little more dignified than usual. Wearing that dress made her feel much more sophisticated than she was accustomed to.

She dined on Quiche Lorraine, finishing the entire, monstrously huge plate with ease after going so long without eating. The food was so delicious that she almost didn't mind eating alone. Then, as she waited for the server to bring out her dessert, a chocolate mousse, she was surprised to see a dark-haired young man, very splendidly dressed, making his way over to her table. At first glance, with a rush of joy, she thought it was Erik, deciding to join her after all, but she soon saw it wasn't. This man was a bit younger, with a more amiable, cheerful expression.

"Good evening, mademoiselle," he said, bowing.

"Good evening. Monsieur." Alana was feeling a little disconcerted by this friendly new arrival. What could he possibly want with her?

"Do you mind?" he asked, gesturing to the empty chair on the other side of her table.

"Oh, no, monsieur." This was odd. Talking to strangers made Alana nervous.

"I saw you dining alone from across the room. I'm here by myself as well, and you looked to be lonely, so I thought I would join you for a little while, if you didn't mind. You're sure you don't mind, mademoiselle?"

"No, not at all, monsieur." Alana was slightly worried by the fact that she'd had someone watching her the entire time she ate her dinner, but she _had_ been wishing for someone to talk to. Erik wasn't here, so this stranger would have to do.

"Please, call me Damien." He held his hand out, and she shook it. "And you are?"

"My name's Alana."

He flashed a stunning white smile. "That's a very pretty name. So what brings you here to Rouen, Alana?"

"I'm here with a…a friend. We're headed for Paris, as soon as the weather clears."

Damien's eyes, hazel like Alana's, grew wide. "Paris, you say? That's where I'm going, too. What is the nature of your trip? Visiting family? Sightseeing? If you need a guide to the City of Lights, I'm your man." Damien had such a warm, inviting attitude, brimming with friendliness and self-confidence. Alana found herself opening up to him easily, despite the fact that they had just met.

"I have an uncle there, and I think I'm going to be staying with him for a while."

Damien nodded in interest. "Where in Paris does your uncle live?"

"Sacree Boulevard," Alana replied. "Near the church. He's a clergyman, actually."

"Sacree Boulevard? Really?" Damien grinned. "I live near there, just a few streets away in Parc de Seigneurs."

The server came with Alana's mousse, and she offered Damien some. After some persuasion, she managed to get him to agree to share it with her, but just a little bit.

"What a coincidence," he remarked, "that we should both be heading to Paris, and that we'll be staying so close to each other. Have you ever been to the city before?"

"I used to live there when I was younger," Alana said, between spoonfuls of delicious mousse, "but I don't remember it. I was too little."

"Well, like I said, if you ever want to see the sights of Paris, come find me and I'll give you the grand tour. You can bring that friend of yours…where is she now? I'd very much like to meet her."

Friend? Oh. Erik. "Actually, my friend is a man." She saw Damien's face fall. "Oh, but the two of us are just friends," she assured him. "Nothing more." Alana felt a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach as she said it, but she attributed it to the vast size of her dinner.

Damien brightened up again. "Then I would be delighted to give both you and him a tour of Paris. Where is he now?"

"He's in his room, down the hall." She wished Erik were here. He certainly was aloof, but she was on the shy side as well, and was getting along fabulously with Damien. Surely Erik could, too.

The young man looked taken aback. "He didn't accompany his lady to dinner?" He shook head in surprise and joking disapproval.

"I'm not his lady," Alana laughed as Damien flashed another smile her way. "And he doesn't like to…go out. He's very shy," she said, thinking of how he avoided contact with people as much as possible.

"I pity the shy and reserved," Damien said seriously. "There are so many interesting people around to talk to. Like you, for instance." Alana blushed. "Tell me, why do you think your friend is so shy?"

She felt uncomfortable talking about Erik without him being there, but she found herself chatting away. "Well, I can be a little quiet myself, so I can sort of understand where he's coming from. But just between you and me, I think there's a lot more to him than just shyness. He wears this mask…"

Damien started. "He what?"

"He wears a mask," Alana repeated, "on one side of his face. I've never seen him without it, and I don't know why he wears it. I'm afraid to ask him." _Why am I telling Damien all this? _But she just kept talking. "I feel so bad for him. He seems very sad, lonely, and can get extremely upset by little things at times. I do care about him, a lot. But he's so confusing sometimes."

Damien nodded, looking very interested in what she was saying. "I understand. I went to war, last year."

"Did you really?"

"Yes. I didn't see much of the action, though, and I was lucky enough to come home early. But some of my friends weren't so fortunate. They came back from the war changed men. Sometimes, I'll be talking to one of them, and they won't respond to what I was saying; they just stare off into space…"

Alana could recall several times where Erik had done exactly that. Damien went on.

"After they came home, they would never want to go out with the rest of us, they would always want to stay at home alone, and when I came to visit them, they would be depressed, uninterested in everything, overly emotional at times, or sometimes they wouldn't show emotion at all. They would talk about how they couldn't sleep at night because they kept having nightmares, and they'd have flashbacks during the day, constantly reliving their battles with the Prussians." Damien shook his head. "It's very sad. Any reminder of the war sends them into a downward spiral. It happens a lot with soldiers, I've heard. Your friend, now, did he fight in the war?"

Alana thought hard. Erik certainly did behave with many of the characteristics Damien had described. "I don't know; I never asked him. But you know, he does seem a lot like the friends you mentioned. Perhaps he did fight in the war."

"Yes, perhaps," Damien agreed. "And maybe he got injured in the war. I saw plenty of men who ended up with disfigured faces after a battle. Your friend could have hurt his face somehow too, and that's why he wears the mask."

Damien was brilliant. That had to be it. Everything fit…Erik's sometimes calm, sometimes overly emotional, erratic behavior, his constant wearing of the mask. "You know, you might be right, Damien. I'll ask him."

"Your bill, mademoiselle," the server said, handing her the slip of paper.

"Right." Damien took out his wallet and took out some francs.

"Oh no, don't," Alana said, bringing out the money Erik had given her. "I have plenty."

"No, I insist. A lady shouldn't have to buy her own dinner." Damien set the francs on the table. Alana pushed them back to him.

"I can pay. Besides, this isn't even my money. It's Erik's, and he said I could use it." She set the money down firmly.

"Very well," said Damien, defeated but still just as cheerful. He looked out the window; the rain had stopped. "If I can't pay for your dinner, I have another request."

"Oh really?" Alana asked, interested. "And what would that be?"

"I was wondering if you would like to take a walk with me."

Alana smiled sadly. "That sounds wonderful, but I have to…"

"Have to what?"

She didn't have the faintest idea. "Have to…have to…bring my friend something to eat."

"You could have the hotel staff send the food to his room while we take a walk," the ever-smiling Damien reasoned, amused with her.

Alana was hesitant.

"Come now," he coaxed. "It would be an honor for you to join me, mademoiselle."

"Well…I suppose I could come, for a little while." Normally she wouldn't go somewhere with someone she knew so little, but she reminded herself that she had been willing to run away from home with Erik after just meeting him, and besides, she had just spoken to Damien more in a few moments than she had the entire first days she'd spent with Erik. This new young man was so friendly, so charming, that she just couldn't say no to him.

She ordered another Quiche Lorraine and had it sent to Erik's room, and she and Damien set off on their walk. The air was fresh, cool, and clean after the rain. At Damien's recommendation, they decided to take a stroll down by the river Seine. He offered Alana his arm, and she took it gladly. For once, she felt like a sophisticated, rich young woman from high society, walking along with Damien, wearing her fine purple dress. Though she was having a lovely time already, she had an aching feeling inside, wishing Erik could be there, too.

They passed the stunning Rouen Cathedral, towering over them. It was the tallest building in France and maybe even the world, Damien said. They had to crane their necks just to see the top of it. After strolling for a little while longer, they stopped at a little footbridge, and watched the sun set over the Seine river, as Damien chatted away, making pleasant conversation. Once the sun had mostly gone, they headed back for the hotel. Alana sighed. "That was such a beautiful sunset," she said, unable to keep from recalling the other, lovely sunset she had seen with Erik the other day.

"Yes it was," Damien replied. "I shall miss Rouen. But Paris has sunsets just as good, no, even better!" When they had reached the hotel and gone inside, he stopped, let go of Alana's arm, and took out a pen and a little slip of paper from his jacket pocket, leaning against a nearby table to write something. When he had finished, he handed the paper to Alana. "It's my address," he said. "When you get settled in Paris, you can stop by anytime, or write me, and I'll come visit you. I'd very much like to see you again, Alana." He smiled at her, his hazel eyes sparkling.

She smiled back. "I'd like to see you again, too."

"Well," Damien said with an exaggerated sigh, "I'd best be getting upstairs to my room. It was very nice meeting you, and even nicer having you join me on our walk this evening." He took her hand and shook it again. "I'll be leaving first thing tomorrow morning. Hope to see you in Paris, Alana." He brought her hand up to his lips and kissed it, and with a final smile, Damien headed up the stairs and left for his room.

In an exceptionally good mood-Damien's pleasant manner was contagious-Alana almost skipped down the hall. She wanted to see how Erik was doing, so she stopped at his door and knocked on the white painted wood, waiting for the answer. There wasn't one. She knocked again. "It's me. Alana."

This time the door opened, and Erik pulled her quickly inside, closing the door behind him. He turned to face her, his expression clearly distraught.

"Where were you?" He demanded.


	11. Give Me Your Hand

Chapter Eleven

"_Give me thy hand oh fairest, whisper a gentle 'Yes.' Come if for me thou carest, with joy my life to bless" - _La Ci Darem La Mano, _Don Giovanni_

Give Me Your Hand

"I…I…I was at supper," Alana stammered, backing away. Erik realized he'd let too much emotion show in his question, and he had frightened her. But his emotions were hard to hide at the moment. She didn't know how he had felt when she was gone.

"It is nine o'clock," Erik said, gesturing dramatically towards the clock on the wall. There was no way that she had been at the restaurant for three hours. He looked at her coldly, expectantly, waiting for her to explain herself. Her face was red, and she appeared very nervous, as she should be.

"I know…." Alana was searching for words. "Oh no…after sunset! And it stopped raining…we're supposed to have left by now, aren't we? Oh." She covered her face with her hands. "I'm so sorry. How could I be so stupid?"

Erik just motioned for her to come in. She obeyed, and he drew the curtain back from the window. It had begun to rain again. "We will be staying here another day," he said. "But you have not answered my question. Where were you all this time?" He hadn't expected her to disappear for so long.

Still nervous, Alana answered, "I was at dinner for a long time, and then I went for a walk."

"Alone?" Erik had been afraid of that. When the sun began to set and she still had not returned to her room or his, he had begun to pace the floor, growing more and more distraught by the second, wondering where she was, if she was safe. After all, she had been through so much already. It wasn't right, what had happened to her and her family. And he wasn't about to let anything else happen to her ever again. He'd debated whether he should go after her or not, eventually opting to wait a while longer, to see if she would come back on her own. But time passed by, and still she hadn't returned. He had been about to go search for her when she'd knocked on his door. "Walking the city streets at night alone is dangerous," he said. There were dangerous people out there who roamed the streets at night. He would know. "You should not have gone."

"But I didn't go alone," Alana said.

Erik was taken aback. Not alone? Who could she have possibly gone with? They didn't know anyone here in Rouen that he knew of. But maybe Alana did. Suspicion crept into his thoughts. "So you were with someone." The thought of her walking around the city with a stranger troubled him, even angered him. "Who?"

Alana looked reluctant to talk about it, but she succumbed to his icy glare and said, "Another one of the hotel guests. He joined me as I was finishing my supper, because we were both sitting alone. He was very friendly, and we talked for a while and then he invited me to take a walk with him, and I didn't think I had anything better to do, so I went with him."

Didn't think she had anything better to do? Anger gnawed at Erik's insides. So, she would rather saunter around Rouen with some overly forward stranger than come back and spend time with him, the person she called her friend?

"I'm sorry," she looked genuinely apologetic. Good. "You must have been very bored sitting here alone. You know, when I was walking with Damien, that's his name, I wished that you were there, too. But I didn't think you would have wanted to come."

Erik nodded. If she had asked, which she hadn't anyway, he would have said no. It wouldn't have been dark enough then. "It's all right," he sighed. "You would rather spend your time with someone else. I understand." He had been a fool to even think that just because she said he was her friend that she would spend all her time with him. She could have a much more enjoyable time with someone, anyone, else.

"Oh no, Erik, that's not it at all," Alana assured him. "I'm here now, aren't I? I like spending time with you. If I didn't, why would I have come to see you?"

Erik thought a moment, but no answer came. He began to calm down. He'd let paranoia and his unsteady emotions get the better of him once again, and he needed to get himself under control. _Everything is all right_, he told himself, feeling the strength and cool head of the Phantom returning to him. He just needed to hold onto that inner strength; with it, he could get through anything. Years ago, when he hadn't been able to get by on his own, the Phantom had appeared, an idea of everything he wanted to be, an idea that he'd adopted, and grown with, until he'd gotten everything he wanted. He had enormous wealth, an entire opera house full of people who had no choice but to give in to his every demand, and a girl who believed he was an angel, the best thing that had ever happened to her. But in spite of all of that, he'd still felt empty inside. He didn't have what he really wanted. He knew that what he wanted most was to be loved, but there was something else too, more than that, and he wasn't sure exactly what it was. _What other people have, _he decided. _Whatever that is. Whatever Alana has._

"So, what would you like to do?" Alana asked him. "We have a lot of time before we leave for Paris."

Erik had the answer long before she'd finished talking. He knew what would make him feel better. "I believe it's time for a voice lesson."

"Now? But it's getting late…people might hear. They might complain." He could tell she really wanted to get out of her lesson. She was still so afraid to sing, afraid of failing, of making a fool out of herself, disappointing him. But he knew she was a quick learner, and she had potential. Teaching her the night before had been like a breath of fresh air. He had felt at peace with the world for once, and he knew why. Teaching the world about music was what he was born to do…but that only meant that he had been born in vain, for no one would listen to him, no one that is except Alana. And Christine before her. Music and Christine and Alana were the three things that had made his pathetic life worth living.

Alana soon gave up trying to escape her lesson, and listened attentively to him, hanging on his every word and doing her absolute best to sing the way he instructed her. He admired her determination, and her focus. She was abandoning thought, and feeling the music of the songs they sang. Her voice was interesting to him, almost a soprano but not quite. She was a coloratura mezzo-soprano, and he was excited to discover that Alana could sing a high C, sometimes even a high D, which was a rare thing indeed for a singer of her type. Perhaps he could even train her to hit a high E as well, but her voice wasn't strong yet, and she sometimes failed to breathe correctly, so when she would attempt a high note, her voice would falter about half of the time. But he had faith in her; with practice, she could become a very good singer, able to sing both mezzo-soprano and as a soubrette, with the bright, sweet tone she had.

He was stricter with her this time, both because of the bad mood he was in and because of the potential he saw in her. When she made too many mistakes, he would stop her, and they would sing scales or do breathing exercises instead, and he would make her sing until she got it right. He found she was excellent at transposing music, changing the key of a song if it was too high or too low for her, and when she sang together with him, she improved greatly. The lesson began to go extraordinarily well, pleasing him tremendously.

"Now, to conclude our lesson, I believe it's time for something a bit more difficult," Erik said. Alana looked crestfallen, but he continued, "Do you know Italian?" Not surprisingly, she shook her head. Of course she didn't; she had spent most of her time supporting what was left of her family and caring for her alcoholic father. There was no way she could have received a proper education, and besides, she was no trained opera singer. Yet. "Do you know what that means?" Alana shook her head again, looked worried and wide-eyed, which he found a bit amusing. "It means you have some time to relax. I have to write something down for you."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

As Erik took out ink, a pen, and several sheets of paper from his seemingly never-ending sack of supplies he'd brought and began writing feverishly, Alana entertained herself by taking out a book he had taken with him from his house. It was a large collection of Edgar Allan Poe stories and poems. Poe was an American author, she knew, but fortunately for her this compilation was translated into French. She flipped through the pages, full of strange, dark, mysterious tales, and came across a story with its first page folded back. It was called "The Masque of the Red Death", a horror story. Alana had never cared for horror stories, but she found herself reading the entire thing, intrigued even though it was frightening, nauseating, and depressing.

"And darkness and decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all." She read the last lines and shuddered, already regretting having read it. Apparently, however, Erik had spent a lot of time reading and studying the story, because there were words scribbled all throughout the margins, written so hastily and chaotically that she couldn't read them. There were little drawings too, that appeared to be of the mysterious guest in Poe's tale, the Red Death, who appeared at the masquerade ball and ended up killing everyone there. The drawings began early on in the story and continued until the very end. On the last page, there was a slip of paper that Alana had thought to be a bookmark, but when she unfolded it, she found a larger drawing. The pictures had slowly evolved throughout the margins of the story's pages, culminating in the image drawn on the piece of paper Alana now held in her hand. Though the figure in it was wearing an elaborate costume and a skull-like full face mask, it looked somewhat like Erik. A chill went down Alana's spine and she leafed through the book's pages, worn by obvious years of being read. But all the stories were dark, Gothic tales, and she closed the book, not wanting to read any more.

"I've finished," Erik suddenly said, holding up several sheets of paper. "Come look."

She got up and took the sheets. In that short amount of time, he had written down an entire song, complete with music and lyrics, her singing parts marked with a cursive A. "Is this an opera piece?" She asked, dreading the answer because she already knew what it was, and that she was not an opera singer.

"Yes. It is from _Don Giovanni, _one of the best operas of all time. What you have before you is actually not the original, but a variation of one of its most famous duets, which I composed myself several years ago in my own musical style. Now, since you do not know Italian, you should first practice saying the words, making sure you pronounce them correctly." It took a little while, but Alana was able to master the pronunciation, and Erik began to teach her the melody of the song called "La Ci Darem La Mano," showing her how to sight read, which she picked up surprisingly quickly, and having her repeat the lines back to him after he sang them first. "All right," he said finally. "I think you're ready to sing the entire song now."

Alana gulped. The song was difficult; it would be so easy to pronounce a word incorrectly and sing the wrong note. Erik must have sensed her nervousness.

"Relax." His voice was soft, soothing. She relaxed instantly. "I will help you."

And so they began the duet. Erik had the first part, his deep but versatile baritone voice singing each note with perfection. Alana came next, her nerves gone after listening to Erik sing, and while meeting his encouraging gaze, which kept her fear in control and filled her with the drive to succeed with the song. It must have given her the ability to succeed as well, because she too sang each note correctly. She began to lose herself in the song. Soon the world was made up of her, her teacher, and the combination of Mozart's song and lyrics and Erik's dark but romantic style of music. When the two of them sang together, their joined voices sounded even better than before. Alana found her voice soaring to new heights she could never have imagined, and Erik…his voice sounded as if it were not of this world.

When Erik reached another solo, Alana opened her eyes, after having been lost in the music. She found her teacher staring intently at her as he sung. There was something about him…something different.

Still singing, he moved closer to where she was standing, slowly, cautiously. Confused but still in somewhat of a trance from the music, his voice, and his impossibly commanding presence, Alana stood where she was, meeting his gaze. Erik kept coming closer, until he was standing mere centimeters from her and she had to look up to continue staring into those blue-green eyes. He had stopped singing, and she realized, distantly, that it was her turn to sing. But she didn't. She just stared into twin blue-green seas, aware of nothing except the fact that he was looking into her eyes as well.

Suddenly his arms were wrapped around her, folding her tightly into a warm embrace. Her face buried itself in his soft black jacket that smelled of candles, new paper, and _him_. He was running his fingers through her hair, still holding her close to him.

"I love you," he whispered.

Alana was speechless. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she was shocked and in utter confusion. _What is happening?_ But the rest of her was completely absorbed in the moment. She felt so warm, and safe, and at the same time there was that strange, light-headed feeling again, accompanied with a chill throughout her entire body.

After a long moment, Erik let go of her. She looked up at him and noticed for the first time, that there was something strange about his countenance. It seemed…_off. _He was still gazing at her with an expression on his face that was full of so much emotion. He had never looked at her this way before. It was almost as if he were looking at someone else…

Inexplicably, Alana's heart sank. She looked harder at him, and saw that something was very wrong. Erik gently took her face in his hands and pulled her to him, leaning in closer.

Then Alana found her voice. "What are you doing?"

He pulled back. His eyes changed a little, but he kept stroking her face gently with his fingers.

"Erik? What are you doing?" Alana repeated, louder.

She watched as his overwhelming, complicated, and unreadable expression transformed into disoriented confusion, realization, and then, pure horror.

He dropped his hands and backed away from her. Then, in a matter of seconds, he ran to the window, pushed open the panes, and disappeared into the stormy night.


	12. Waking Dream

Chapter Twelve

_I'm not crazy, I'm just a little unwell, I know right now you can't tell, but stay a while and maybe then you'll see a different side of me…" _-Matchbox 20

Waking Dream

Erik dashed blindly through the rain pouring down on the deserted street. He threw open the stable door, startling the horses and sending them rearing up in their stalls, whinnying in fear. But apart from the chaos and noise, one black horse on the end stood still and whickered a soft, friendly greeting. Erik ran to her stall, opened the door, and threw his arms around Raven's neck. The mare nuzzled him gently, ever loyal, calm and trusting despite her master's often erratic behavior. Erik rubbed the horse's neck, trying to calm himself and make sense of what had just happened.

His heart was pounding. What had just happened? What would have happened had Alana not said something back there in the hotel room? Why had he chosen to sing _that_ song with her, of all the songs in the world? He had sworn he would never sing it again with anyone else. He didn't understand what had possessed him to choose that song, and he didn't understand what had come over him after they had begun to sing it. One moment, he had been helping Alana with the most difficult piece she had tried thus far.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

_The next moment, he found himself in a dark corridor, singing as he watched his angel through a small hole in the wall. Christine was singing with him. His heart began to beat faster, the familiar warm feeling he felt every time he saw her washing over him. It consumed him. The song they were singing was their favorite; his version of "La Ci Darem La Mano" suited both of their voices perfectly. For so long, he had sung his song, desperately wanting to join Christine in that little chapel where she sat alone in the night, and now, he could no longer contain himself. He opened a secret door in the stone wall and stepped through._

_Christine just stared at him, unafraid despite his sudden appearance and the mask he wore. He finished singing his part and gazed back at her. Then, he found himself taking her in his arms, holding her close to him, running his hands through her dark brown hair. He had never felt so wonderful in all his life. He was almost…happy._

"_I love you," he whispered, three words he had been longing to say for so long. He let go of her. She was staring up in awe at him, looking more beautiful than ever. Erik took her face in his hands, pulling her back towards him. He was moving his own face slowly closer to hers, their lips just centimeters apart. Then Christine spoke._

"_What are you doing?" She looked confused, and not quite like herself._

_Erik moved back slightly, looking at her in equal bewilderment. Her eyes were changing. The deep brown eyes he knew, he loved, were becoming a combination of green, blue, brown, and gray, all at the same time. He was stroking her face, but it was changing shape. Mounting panic rose up inside of him. What was happening? Her entire figure was fading fast, transforming into…into what? His hands shook. _No, no, don't go. Don't leave me again. Please.

_Don't leave me again? What was going on?_

"_Erik? What are you doing?" That wasn't Christine's voice at all._

_And then he was standing in his hotel room, Alana looking back at him, her hazel eyes wide with fear. _

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

It had all been a dream. He had dreamt of being with Christine countless times. But he had never seen this vision in his waking hours before. Erik couldn't believe it. It was one of the strangest experiences he'd ever had, and someone else had been there to witness it. He didn't understand anything except that he had somehow had a terribly vivid hallucination, and Alana knew it. He had actually _believed_ she was someone else.

He patted Raven's neck, trying to slow down his rapid heartbeat, closing his eyes, attempting to relax and remove the vision from his mind. It had been so real…what if something like it happened again? What if something like it had happened before and he hadn't remembered?

_I'm losing my mind_.

The stable was dark, lit only by a pair of lanterns beside either door. Shadows loomed in every corner, strange noises resonating throughout the building. For once, Erik-the man who lived in the night-was afraid of the dark, afraid of what he would see in the shadow. He felt like he had as a small, scared child, huddled in a cage alone, terrified of something or someone coming out of the night to hurt him.

"Erik?"

He had been covering his eyes, hoping that somehow it would seem less dark, but that had only made things worse, as faces from the past raced through his memory. He lowered his hands, and dared to turn around.

There was Alana, standing in the front of the stall, hair drenched, her soaked purple dress sticking to her slender frame. "I thought I might find you here."

Erik just looked at the floor, with no words to say, no way of explaining to her what had happened back at the hotel room. He could feel her looking at him. From where she was standing, all she could see was the masked side of his face. She said nothing for a while, but then, she opened her mouth and asked the worst question imaginable.

"Erik?" He heard her take a deep breath. "I know this probably isn't the best time to ask you this, but…I just have to know. Why…why do you wear a mask?"

He closed his eyes, fighting back tears and painful memories.

"We're friends, Erik. You don't have to hide from me."

Erik just looked helplessly at her. It meant so much to him that they were friends. But he couldn't say it. Not after what happened. Every. Single. Time. If anyone saw him unmasked, or heard of his deformity, they never looked at him the same way again. They treated him like an outcast, an untouchable. They tried to hunt him down, lock him up, or they just ran away. Or they treated him like a child, thinking they somehow needed to take care of him so he wouldn't hurt himself or anyone else. Alana was the only person he had met who hadn't seen his abhorrent face; therefore, she was the only one who could treat him as if he were a normal human being, they only one who could call him friend.

"Did you fight in the war, Erik? Is that it?" Alana asked.

What? Why would she be asking that? He just stared blankly back at her.

"Damien fought in the war, and he said that some of his friends got hurt in battle, and some were never the same after they came back home. Is that what happened to you? Did you hurt your face?" She spoke as though she believed she already knew the answer.

Of course, she was wrong. But oh, how he wished she wasn't. It would be much better to have received an injury in battle than to have been born as a freak. So much better. He had a reply for Alana: "Yes."

She looked at him sympathetically, and he felt mild frustration. He didn't want to be pitied, he just wanted to be normal. She moved closer and sat down on the straw beside him. "Erik," she said sadly. "You don't have to wear a mask."

"I do." Erik whispered. If she only knew what was beneath…

"No, you don't. And you don't have to hide. Not from me, not from anyone else. Your scars, whatever's behind that mask…it's an _honor. _It shows everyone what you were willing to do for your country." She really believed his lie. She had wanted it to be true, he could tell. She wanted to believe her friend was a good, honest man. "I won't tell you not to wear your mask. Clearly, it makes you feel better to hide your scars. But I'm going to tell you that you don't need to be afraid of the people around you. Once they know who you are and what you've done, they'll see past the mask, and they'll respect you." Oh, the irony of it all. Erik grimaced. If Alana knew who he really was, and all the terrible things he'd done, he was sure she would leave, and he would never see her again.

"So." Alana pulled back her dripping wet hair. "What happened, in the war?"

And Erik found himself spinning a tale of courage, loyalty, patriotism and tragic violence.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

_I was a lieutenant, serving in Marshal MacMahon's army. We were at Sedan when the Germans surrounded us and attacked. Our army was outnumbered, and supplies were low. We knew the odds were against us, but we had sworn we would never go down without a fight. _

_I was in the first cavalry. We charged on the Germans, straight into the line of fire. We all had this inescapable sense that we were charging straight to our deaths, but it was an honor. I had my sword, and I was cutting down enemy soldiers left and right, but I could see my fellow men going down all around me. Only a few moments later, my horse was shot out from under me. He was dead, and I had to continue the fight on foot. Things were not going well for our side. I was caught by a bullet-it grazed me in the ribs-but I had to keep fighting. I had to stop the Germans from taking the fortress, had to protect Napoleon III. France._

_After a while I managed to break out of the more intense, close fighting. Then I saw someone on the ground, a comrade of mine, a fellow lieutenant. He was hurt, but still alive. The grass was on fire, and the fire was creeping closer and closer to him. I pulled him to his feet, and he revived a little, able to walk if he leaned against me. I walked through the field, supporting his weight on my right side, trying to find a safe place for him to lay down and rest until the fighting stopped. We were dodging shots here and there, narrowly missed many times by the bullets of enemy guns. Then, all of a sudden, there was an explosion. It came from nowhere. Without warning, there was blinding light and heat and burning pain, and then there was nothing. _

_When I finally woke up, I was lying on the battlefield, surrounded by dead bodies, some Germans, but mostly my fellow soldiers. I was on my side, and when I turned my head, there was what was left of the comrade I had tried to save. His body was ruined, blown into pieces that were burnt beyond recognition, but I knew it was him. The explosion had struck him full on, and his body had been a shield for mine, however weak. My face felt as if it were on fire and I had burns all over me, but what hurt me the most was the fact that my fellow lieutenant had died, his body saving me from death in the explosion when I had been trying to save _him_._

_After a while I got up, and tried to find help in town, but whenever a person saw me, they would run away. I didn't understand. Eventually a war doctor found me and he tried to treat my injuries, but he said nothing could be done for my face. He showed me a mirror, and I saw for the first time what had happened to me. He wouldn't even look at me straight in the eyes. I found I couldn't either. I broke the mirror, and I ran from that place. _

_We had lost the battle, and surrendered in disgrace. Napoleon III was captured, and thousands of my fellow soldiers were taken prisoner. I wished I could have been one of the ones dead, or captured. I had no one. No family. No friends. And no one would come near me, not after what I looked like, or the way I acted. I wasn't myself anymore. I took to wearing a mask and only going out at night, trying to hide from the reality of what had happened to my country, what was happening to me. But I couldn't._

_I went to my old home to take my money and my other horse, Raven, with me as I tried to find a new place to start over. I brought my love of music with me as well. That was the only thing the war didn't beat out of me. Nothing could take my music away. _

_I wandered through the country, and finally found that house, outside Détente, and that is where I stayed, until you came. _

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

As Erik told his story, he watched Alana become absorbed in his completely fictitious account. All his reading of Paris newspapers and war stories seemed to have paid off. He hoped there were no inconsistencies in his tale, details he had given here and there that didn't match up with things he'd said before, but apparently his story had Alana convinced that he was a horribly scarred former lieutenant, hurt in a battle while trying to save a fallen comrade. An honorable man. Alana didn't need to know that in reality, he would never have fought in the war; he didn't care who was in control. He would be an outcast in any society.

When he had finished spinning his narrative of lies, Alana said, on the verge of tears, "That's such a sad story. People really treated you that way…ran away from you… just because of your face? That's ridiculous. If they had only known that you got those injuries trying to protect them!" People had treated him much, much worse than that because of his face, Erik thought bitterly, and because they had actually known the truth, that he had been born that way. Cursed. "So, do you ever have…flashbacks of the war? Or of other things?" Alana asked, looking uncomfortable all of a sudden. Erik suspected where this conversation was going.

"Yes I do," he said; a half-truth. He had many, many flashbacks everyday, his thoughts constantly full of sorrowful memories.

"Are they…is that what happened, back at the hotel room?" she asked, apprehensive. "Did you think you were…somewhere else?"

"Yes," Erik said sadly, and this time he was telling the truth.

"Did you think I was Christine?" He just looked at Alana, grief-stricken and ashamed that she was a witness to some of his most humiliating spells of insanity. He didn't want to talk about it. Especially not about Christine. "The girl from your pictures, and songs?"

"I don't understand it," Erik said, covering his face with his hands. "Nothing like that has ever happened to me before." At least, he didn't think it had.

"It's all right," Alana said, though she still looked upset, and thoughtful. "But I would like to know…who was she? What happened to her?"

Erik lowered his hands from his face and took a deep breath. What could he say? Who was Christine? She was _everything _to him. He let out a long sigh. "She was…the woman I loved. I still love." He struggled to keep his emotions under control, trying to push back the rising, all-consuming despair. Talking about this was even harder than he had anticipated. "She was my reason for living. For fighting. I fought for her, so hard."

Alana's face was full of sympathy. "What happened?"

"She saw my face. And later she fell in love with another man. And I had to let her go." He closed his eyes and clenched his fist, shaking with emotion. Instinctively one hand went to the ring on the silver chain around his neck.

"I'm so sorry." Alana touched his shoulder, and he flinched, making her draw her hand back immediately. He could think of nothing to say. Erik knew she pitied him, wanted to make him feel better, but he didn't want her to feel that way, didn't even want her to try. She couldn't do anything. He just wanted her to see him as a normal person, but there was no hope of that now.

"You've been through a lot, Erik," she said, "and I'll probably never be able to understand exactly what you're feeling or what you've gone through, but please just remember…there have been a lot of things that went wrong in my life too, so if you ever feel sad or angry or afraid, you can come find me. I know what it's like to have my heart broken. I'll always be willing to listen and help you in any way I can." She looked up at the ceiling for a moment and sighed. "God only knows how many nights I cried in my room alone, wishing I had someone to talk to, someone who could understand what was going on in my life and how I felt." Alana turned back to Erik. "I don't want anyone else to have to feel like that. Especially not you. You've saved my life more than once, and you've been such a good friend to me already. You deserve to be happy."

Erik looked at her in surprise. He deserved to be happy? The irony of it was unbearable. She thought he was a good friend, that he deserved to be happy, he who had done so many terrible things, who was lying to her even now. He hated himself. Hated, hated, hated himself. But he couldn't tell her the truth. She wanted to believe his story was true, and that he was a good person. How could he tell her otherwise? It would ruin everything. He was protecting her, by lying. And he was protecting himself. This way was easier…for him, the art of deception had always been easy. It was all he had ever known.

"What are you thinking?" Alana was gazing closely at him, as if she were trying to read his mind. "You still look…upset. What's wrong?"

He closed his eyes again. "Please. Leave me. I just want to be alone," he whispered.

Alana's face fell and she bit her lip. "Are you sure? You can tell…"

"Go. Now."

She nodded slowly, clearly disappointed in him, and went back to the hotel, leaving Erik sitting on the floor, ignoring Raven, who nudged him concernedly. He just stared at the wall, with half-dead eyes, and found himself singing the words,

_Masquerade_

_Paper faces on parade_

_Ma_s_querade_

_Hide your face so the world will never find you_

_Masquerade_

_Seething shadows, breathing lies_

_Masquerade_

_You can fool any friend who ever knew you_

…_run and hide but a face will still pursue you…_


	13. The Fallen Angel's Lullaby

Chapter Thirteen

_Sleep...angels will watch over you...and soon, beautiful dreams will come true...can you feel spirits embracing your soul? So dream, as secrets of darkness unfold...- -_Hayley Westenra

The Fallen Angel's Lullaby

Erik woke to an aching back and a sore neck, leaning against a wall, hard and uncomfortable. Blinking in the light, he looked around in confusion…he was in Raven's stall. He didn't even remember falling asleep there. Outside the stall he heard so much noise, people moving and talking all at once. One voice shouted out, "Maurice! There's a man asleep in the black horse's stall, wearing some odd mask and fancy clothes, probably drunk or crazy…get rid of him!"

Odd mask. Someone was coming after him. Erik hurried to his feet, waking Raven, who gave him a friendly nudge in the chest. _Not now, _he thought as he rushed out of the stall, closing the door behind him. He turned around and came face to face with an irritable-looking groom. "That's right! Get out of here, you crazy drunk!" the man yelled, with a blast of foul-smelling breath.

Erik seethed. Other people were so infuriating. "I am a guest here at the hotel, and that is my horse. Now get out of my way," he snarled. The man backed away, nodding to him and looking at the ground, trembling where he stood. Erik stormed past him, moving toward the open stable doors ahead, but not before colliding with another man as he came walking briskly around the corner. The man was sent stumbling back after Erik nearly mowed him down. The man's top hat, which he had been wearing tilted slightly sideways, fell off his head onto the cobblestones.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, friend," the younger man said, stooping to pick up his hat. He put it back on, making sure to have it tilt a little to the left once again.

Erik just shook his head in irritation and moved around him, but not before the other man took a long, hard look at him, and not before Erik saw his eyes flash with surprise.

It must be the mask, he thought angrily. This was why he didn't like direct encounters with other people.

He stepped out of the stable and into blinding sunlight. Instantly his hands came up to cover his eyes as the hot light seemed to burn straight through him. Oh, _hell_. He was out in the sun.

Then he felt a hand on his shoulder, and he whirled around to face the stranger. "Light burns your eyes doesn't it? Try a cold bath, or a steaming cup of tea," said an unfamiliar man, who looked like another one of the grooms. "Always makes me feel better after a wild night." He elbowed Erik in the ribs, who backed away from him, squinting in the bright light. "That must have been quite a party you went to…how did you ever end up in that crazy costume and passed out in a horse stall? Now _that's_ a story I'd like to hear." The groom laughed.

Erik had had enough. Without answering, he walked off quickly down the lane back to the hotel, until he found the place where his first-floor room was. The window still hung open from last night. He climbed up through it, stepping onto a damp towel, undoubtedly placed there by Alana to clean up the water that must have blown in during last night's rainstorm. He turned around and discovered Alana herself, asleep on the small couch at the foot of the bed. Why was she there? He closed the window and the curtains, and the noise woke her.

"You're back," she exclaimed, yawning and sitting up. She blinked, then grinned mischievously. "That means…" she paused for dramatic effect, "…you had to go out in the sun to get here."

Erik almost rolled his eyes with annoyance. "Yes. I did," he answered coldly.

"And you're still here," she said, smiling. "You didn't go blind, or melt, or anything terrible like that. It wasn't as bad as you thought it would be, was it?"

Erik thought of his experiences out in the morning. It had been too bright, toowarm, and he had been forced to encounter too many people. Still, he _had_ survived, as Alana pointed out, but he wasn't about to let someone win an argument with him. "Yes. It was." He could see her taking in his disheveled appearance…she was amused by it. He looked down and noticed for the first time that he had straw all over him, stuck on his clothes, maybe even in his hair. How humiliating.

"I'm sure that you could become used to going outside. It might even do you some good..." Alana's expression changed from amusement to concern.

Erik had had enough of this subject. "What are you doing in here?" She was startled by his sudden, rather harsh interjection, but she regained her composure.

"I'm sorry if I…er, surprised you," she apologized. "What happened was, I accidentally locked my key inside my own room, and when I went to the front desk to see if they had another, the clerk couldn't find a replacement. They were going to send for a locksmith this morning and give me another room while I waited, but I told them that wasn't necessary."

"Why?" Erik wanted to know.

"Because you're good at opening locks," Alana said. "Aren't you? How else did you get into all those closed, locked shops in Détente?"

She was right about that. Erik reached into his jacket pocket and took something out. "With this."

"What is it?" Alana got up and moved closer to investigate.

He held out a little silver key in the palm of his hand, and she took it, examining its smooth surface with different designs of skulls all over it. "It's a skeleton key," he explained. "It can open most doors, and will probably open the one to your room. Come."

He went out of the room to Alana's, and she followed. Just in case, he ran a hand through his hair. No straw. What a relief. Then he motioned toward the locked door. "Try it."

She went to the door and put the silver key into the lock. Erik watched her eyes grow wide as the key turned, and the door opened when she turned the knob.

"It worked! I knew it would. Thank you." She handed the key back to him, beaming. "That's so interesting. Where did you ever get a key like that?"

"I made it," Erik said, shifting uncomfortably where he stood. Inexplicably, he was finding it hard to meet her bright, smiling gaze.

"Really? That's amazing! And it really opens any door?" She was lingering in the doorway, but Erik suddenly felt anxious to return to his own room. "Not all, but most. Now you should get some more rest before we resume our journey," he said. "Or have something to eat, perhaps." He turned to leave.

"All right." Alana said hesitantly. "I suppose I'll see you later, then."

Erik nodded ever so slightly, and retreated to his room feeling relieved to be on his own again, and yet, surprisingly, looking forward to resuming their journey together. He'd discovered he rather enjoyed travel, being on the open road. Alana made for pleasant company too most of the time, he had to admit. She was a good friend to him.

Right now he was very anxious to get to Paris. The man he'd met at the Rouen Opera House had said that Christine was returning to the city. She was there. He missed her terribly. With every thought of her, his chest ached and he was filled with feelings of loss and regret. Yes, he had been the one to let her go, he knew. If he had forced her to leave the Vicomte, she would have been devastated, and he wouldn't have been able to live with himself. He couldn't do something like that to her…make every single day of her life miserable, a living hell without the one she truly loved. He couldn't let Christine live the way he did. How could he let her suffer such despair, agony that always lurked below the surface, waiting to emerge and consume him, even now? There had been no choice in the matter really, and so he had let her leave him. Normally the memory would have brought about a fit of sorrow, but today, his mind couldn't help but wander.

What would happen if he found her, went to her? What if it turned out that she had missed him as much as he had missed her? At the mere idea, his heart broke for her.

Maybe what Alana had said was right…maybe he really could live like normal people did, able to walk the streets in the sun freely, unafraid and able to face the world. He looked at himself in the mirror, and shook his head. No. It could never be like that for him. Not without Christine. Only if he found her again could there ever be a possibility of him finding happiness. Freedom.

Yes. That was what he would do…once everything was situated in Paris, he would go out and search for Christine. He would find her, and he would win her back. He would have love. _He would get his life back_.

The day seemed to crawl by. Erik couldn't sleep, couldn't eat. He tried to write, filling up pages and pages with melodies, but try as he might, no lyrics would come to him. After several hours he gave up, and paced the floor relentlessly, stopping only to glance out the window or look at the clock on the wall that ticked ever so slowly. At last, dusk fell. Dressed elegantly and neatly, making sure everything was as perfect as it could be (not wanting to repeat his humiliating morning), he took up his bags of supplies and went to knock on Alana's door.

She answered almost instantly, ready to leave as well. She was dressed in her new rose-colored dress, which became her very well indeed. The girl was smiling at him too. That was something new he had noticed about her. When he first met her, she had been quieter, more serious, which was perfectly understandable due to her situation in life. But now she was bright and cheerful, acting as if nothing had ever gone wrong at all. Earlier her incessant cheerfulness would have irritated him, but now…now it made him feel…different. Lighter. Alana was chatting idly, and he attempted to follow the conversation and say a few words back as they walked through the hall to the front door, also making sure to keep his head down, hiding the masked side of his face as much as possible from any observers. Fortunately, there were few people in the lobby, and the grooms in the stable had finished their work for the night and left for bed, so he was able to harness Raven and get them on their way without trouble.

The next night of their journey was uneventful. Erik gave Alana another lesson as they drove, choosing simple songs for her to sing, ones free of any emotional attachments he might have had for some other songs. The lesson went very well, and Erik began to think that he had made the right decision, for once, in deciding to teach her. It was good to be with someone who appreciated music and hungered for deeper knowledge of it as Alana did.

It also made him think just how wonderful it would be when he had _Christine _back with him. In their time together, she had learned so much, and there was still so much more for _both _of them to discover. His heart raced at the thought of it.

Dawn approached before they reached Paris, so they stopped at another hotel along the road. Alana complained profusely for a while, arguing that they were so close to Paris now and surely they would make it to her uncle's soon, but she soon gave up, tired from the night's journey.

They left the next night and reached Paris within a few hours. In literature, Erik had often heard it referred to as the "City of Lights," and from what he had always seen from the roof of the opera house, it had been an accurate description. But now as he and Alana looked out at the city, he saw that it had gone all dark.

"That's strange," Alana said. "I don't remember much about living in Paris, but I know that it wasn't ever so…dark."

Erik nodded in agreement, and they drove cautiously into the city, unsure of what awaited them.

The streets were completely deserted. They drove through in utter silence, their way illuminated by a few streetlamps that were lit here and there

"What on earth is going on?" Alana wondered.

Erik didn't know. He had never seen anything like this before. Then, far off on an abandoned lane, he glimpsed a man on horseback, dressed in some sort of uniform, carrying a gun. A soldier. A gasp from beside him told him that Alana had seen the man, too.

"Erik…I think there's a curfew here," she said. It made sense, with the streets unnaturally empty. The soldier must be on patrol, hunting for curfew breakers. He pulled Raven to a halt immediately, hoping the soldier wouldn't notice them. Luckily, the soldier passed by and vanished from sight.

"What do we do?" Alana whispered. Erik glanced over at her, and she looked scared. "What if they catch us? I don't have identification or anything, and I don't even know what's going on here."

"Hush. They will not catch us." Erik tried to think of a possible solution. They had already ventured too far into the city to go back; chances were, a patrol would hear the cart. They would have to find some place to hide. He decided to pull into a nearby dark alley, hoping that they would go unnoticed, willing Raven to step more quietly. No soldiers came near when they halted in the alley, so they were safe for the moment. Still, he feared they could be seen if someone passed by. "Alana," he said, "Get behind one of those piles of wood. You should be out of sight there." He'd just noticed that near the back of the alley, there were giant piles of lumber scattered everywhere. Odd.

Once he'd freed Raven from her harness, the horse began to rest, and he took the sack that held their food and water and joined Alana behind one of the wood piles, handing the sack over to her.

"This is just how I pictured my first night back in Paris," she said in a sarcastic whisper, "hiding in a dark alley surrounded by garbage and all this old wood." She took a canteen of water from the sack and had a long drink.

"I didn't expect this either," Erik retorted. Curious, he looked around at the mass of lumber. "You know…I believe this could be the remnant of a barricade." He had read about such things before.

"A barricade? So we find the city empty except for soldiers on patrol, and there's a curfew, and there are remains of barricades?" She looked thoughtful, shaking her head in bewilderment. "What's happened here?"

Erik certainly didn't know, but he did remember something the man at the Rouen Opera House had said, that at one point Paris had been unsafe. That was why Christine had gone to Normandy. He'd also said something about the military getting involved, stopping the Commune, whatever that was. He hadn't exactly been keeping up with Parisian news during the past months, and obviously Alana hadn't either. Now he wished he had; he had no idea what the two of them had gotten into.

"Well, I suppose I can find out everything from my uncle tomorrow," Alana said, as she yawned and stretched out on the cobblestones, using the sack as a pillow. She still had not gotten used to sleeping during the day and traveling at night, and was often tired. "Do you have the time?"

Erik took out his pocket watch. "One-thirty."

Alana groaned. "Ugh. Will morning _never_ come?"

"It'll come. Rest now. You're tired."

She folded her arms across her chest, looking cross. "I could never fall asleep like this."

He held up a finger in front of his lips and dared to glance over the top of the pile of wood he hid behind. There were two mounted soldiers passing by on the other side of the street. They stopped, and for a while they looked curiously at Raven, who was asleep standing up closer to the front of the alley, but eventually they moved on and disappeared from sight.

"Soldiers?" Alana mouthed.

Erik nodded and whispered, "They're gone." She looked very worried, but she didn't need to be. No one would find them. "You're safe," he assured her. "Rest now." Alana gave him a skeptical look, but closed her eyes, and eventually, her breathing grew more relaxed. She was asleep, but in between glances over the top of the barricade to watch out for patrols, Erik noticed that her sleep was troubled.

Her arms and legs and head moved back and forth, and she was murmuring words he couldn't understand. At one point, she said clearly, her voice shaking with emotion even as she slept, "Mother…please don't leave me." She shook her head, and Erik saw a tear run down her cheek from her closed eyes. He pitied her, and began to understand something more about her.

She tried her best to act cheerful and happy when she was around him, like everything was all right. That's what she had said to him many times. _Everything was all right_. But though she didn't want to show it, he knew she suffered because of what had happened to her family. He didn't quite understand the way she felt about her mother's death, how devastated she had been. He'd never experienced any kind of love between his mother and himself. But Erik did understand sorrow. During the day, in the company of others, Alana could find distraction, she could ignore or even escape her pain, but in the night, alone or in sleep, she could not. As she slept now, she seemed to be reliving every painful experience she had been through all over again.

Perhaps the two of them had more in common than Erik had thought before.

Looking at her now pained him. He wanted to do something for her, bring her comfort and peace somehow. He moved nearer to her, kneeling beside her sleeping form. Slowly, gently, he wiped the tears from her face, careful not to wake her. She was still having nightmares, muttering in her sleep.

Erik's heart hurt for her, and he set out to help her in the only way he knew how. He concentrated on the music in his head, and as he did he found words joining with his melody in a simple, sweet song. He leaned closer to her, and began to sing softly, so that only she could be able to hear the words he sang:

_Hush now, little one_

_Be at peace when you dream_

_Be still now, soon the sun_

_Will rise, but now a moonbeam_

_Shines down on you_

_An angel watches over you_

_So sleep, let the shadows die_

_Let the light that shines inside you_

_Chase away the dark that haunts you and I._

When he had finished the last line, Erik watched as Alana grew still, her troubled expression fading into one of peaceful dreams. He looked up at the sky and saw the moon-it really was shining down on her, lighting her face in a luminous glow that became even more beautiful when she smiled in her sleep. And as he watched and waited or the sun to rise and their journey to begin again, he couldn't help but smile too.


	14. Reunion

Chapter Fourteen

_I'm in the waiting room...I can't see for the smoke. I think of you and your Holy Book, when the rest of us choke. -_U2

Reunion

When Alana woke just after sunrise the next morning, she got up and found Erik, sitting on the driver's seat of the cart, already prepared to leave and obviously waiting for her. He was facing in the opposite direction, shrouded in his black cloak. He turned his head slightly as he heard her get to her feet, and she caught a glimpse of his white mask. Faceless. That was how he looked right now. She shivered.

"You're up," he said softly. Immediately she calmed down, wondering why she had been afraid, even if it had been for just a moment. She had always been safe with him. Well, there had been that strange night where he'd thought she was Christine, but she knew he would never do anything to hurt her. He was the one who'd saved her life twice, accompanied her on this journey to find what was left of her family. She would always be safe with him. Alana walked up to the cart and climbed into the seat next to Erik.

Automatically, he moved to the right, as far away from her as he could possibly sit without falling off the seat. It stung a little, that he always wanted to keep his distance from her, but she was getting used to it. He had been through a lot, and it would take time for him to recover. She knew he was still missing Christine, but time could heal anything, couldn't it? Surely someday he would be able to move on, maybe even come to his senses and realize that he didn't need to wear the mask. Maybe…

A few early risen passersby gave them odd looks as they suddenly pulled out of the alley. She probably looked terrible, after having just woken up after a night outside, and Erik definitely looked very intimidating in his black cloak. "Did you rest well?" he asked, his voice rather tense. Alana looked over at him but couldn't see his face. It was completely hidden by his hood.

"Yes I did," she said, her thoughts flashing back to that night. At first, she had been dreaming about…something bad, she couldn't remember what anymore, but she did recall others. Some were peaceful, others were full of adventures. She was in different places she didn't recognize, seeing things she had never seen before, beautiful cities, incredible landscapes, wonders of the world. Other times, she was in a quiet, dark place lit by candlelight. She didn't know where she was, but she felt completely at peace. Throughout all her dreams, she heard music, and a faraway voice singing to her, and sometimes, she would look over her shoulder and see someone standing in the background, always watching over her, always keeping her safe. She knew it had been Erik, there in all those dreams. Dreams always mean something, her mother had told her long ago. So what had those dreams meant?

Erik just nodded at her reply, and they drove on, only speaking when Alana told him whether to take the next turn left or right or to continue straight on. She remembered the general area where her uncle lived, but she began to realize that the Paris streets did not look quite the same as when she had lived there as a child, or come to visit later, before her mother died. Some of the street names were different, and some streets were missing signs altogether. Many of the buildings looked different, and so did many of the people. Everything and everyone looked…sad, defeated. _What happened here?_ Alana wondered. This was not the Paris she had known at all. That's when she realized that she was lost. They had come to a place where she didn't recognize any of the streets or landmarks.

"Erik, could you stop the cart please?" He pulled back on the reins, and Raven stopped. He turned to her. His face was still hidden, but she could tell he was waiting for an explanation. "I need to ask someone for directions to my uncle's house."

She heard him sigh. "You've gotten us lost, then," he said, his voice icy.

Alana bit her lip. He was angry with her. "I'm sorry. I won't be long." She got down from the driver's seat, looking around and spying a bookshop. There was bound to be someone intelligent in there she could ask. "I'll go in there and ask someone," she said, gesturing toward the shop.

Erik nodded to her and said, "Do you see that café over there? There is a water trough for horses in front, and Raven could use a drink. I'll be there."

Alana left and entered the bookshop, greeted by a musty smell. She sneezed. The shop was dusty, too, and empty except for a little old man with spectacles at the desk.

"Well hello there," the old man said, looking and sounding surprised to see her. "Welcome. What can I do for you, mademoiselle?"

"Good morning, monsieur. I was wondering if you could help me find a place I'm looking for."

The man's face fell, and he looked sadly at the shop's shelves full of dusty, unsold

books. "I can try, mademoiselle, I can try. Pray tell, what place do you need to find?"

She walked up to the desk. "I'm looking for my uncle's home. He's a pastor, and I know that he lives across the street from his church, but I haven't been to Paris in a very long time and I don't quite know how to get there."

"Hmm." The old man stroked his white beard. "What kind of church is it?"

Alana tried to remember. "Well, it's large, and made of stone, with stained glass windows, and…"

"That's what they _all_ look like," the man said. "What denomination? Catholic, Lutheran, Calvinist?"

Alana vaguely remembered seeing books by a man named Calvin on their shelves at home. They were her father's, and he'd never bothered to read them, but most likely they were gifts from his half-brother. "Calvinist," she said, fairly sure of her answer.

The old man asked her a few more questions about the house and church's surroundings, and she told him that she remembered they had been near the nicer part of the city, with beautiful parks and large, elegant houses nearby. Finally, the man said that he knew what place she was talking about; his daughter had actually gotten married at that church. His eyes watered when he mentioned her, but he accounted it to all the dusty books, and proceeded to draw her a little map with instructions on a slip of paper. "Why don't you take a look at some of my books while I draw this out for you?" he asked. "Please."

There was an almost begging tone in his voice, and Alana couldn't refuse. Business was obviously slow, and she felt sorry for him. _Somebody_ had to buy a book, and she had a little money left over that Erik had insisted she keep. She searched the dust-ridden shelves and came across a large volume called, _Myths, Legends, and Fairy Tales From Across the World. _She took it and blew the dust from the cover, flipping through the pages. The book wasn't much to look at on the outside, but on the inside there were countless interesting stories, each one with gorgeous colored illustrations. Some of the stories were ones her mother had told her as a child. That was it. She was going to buy this book.

The old man had finished making his map, and his face lit up when she brought the book up to him and took some money from the hidden pocket of her dress.

"Bless you, my dear," he said, taking the money, looking as grateful as if she had given him ten million francs instead of just ten. "Business has been so terribly slow these past months." He looked around sadly at his empty shop. "No one has time for books anymore, or the money to pay for them. Why, I remember when this shop used to be overflowing with customers, but that was before the war, before the Commune, before this infuriating _military infiltration_. Be careful my dear. Paris isn't the place you remember anymore. Don't do anything to draw attention to yourself…everyone's paranoid these days. If you're not careful, people will get suspicious and the soldiers will come and take you away, like they did my precious, precious daughter." The old man's eyes watered again, but this time he did not account them to the dust. "They took her off to Versailles, and I haven't seen her since. _Always_ be on your guard, mademoiselle. Be cautious, constantly alert. Don't believe everything you hear, and be very…" He lowered his voice to a whisper. "…very careful of the people you choose to trust."

Alana left the shop, carrying her new book and the map the old man had made for her. Though the day was warm, she felt a chill in the air as she looked at the crowd of people in the street. They looked sad, tired…like they were all carrying heavy burdens on their backs. As she looked at them, in some ways she could feel it too. She glimpsed a mounted soldier riding across a nearby avenue, and she shuddered. She just wanted to find her uncle's house as soon as possible.

Erik was waiting at the watering trough in front of the café. When she came up to him he turned to her, his face still hidden. He made no attempt however, to hide his irritation. "Took you long enough," he said, rather unkindly.

"I'm sorry," she apologized. "But now I know where we need to go. My uncle's house isn't far from here at all, actually."

"Climb up, then," Erik said, and she got back up into the driver's seat with him. Of course, he moved away from her.

"I don't bite," she said, feeling hurt and suddenly upset with him. What had she done to him to make him try to avoid her?

"Who said you did?" Erik asked evenly

"Well, half of the time I'm around you, you act as if I've got some kind of horrible contagious disease you don't want to catch. I know you've been especially trying to avoid me the past couple of days, and I'd like to know why. What did I ever do to you?"

Erik didn't respond, which infuriated her.

"Why can't you always be like you are when you're giving me a voice lesson? Then you actually talk; I know you have so many interesting things to say, so _say _them. And when we're singing or you're playing your violin, I can see that you're almost…sort of happy. I know you've been through a lot, but why can't you at least _try_ and be like that all of the time? I'm trying to be a good friend to you, but you're making it a little hard, Erik."

He still didn't answer her. Alana wished she could see his face, see what he was thinking since he wouldn't tell her. There was so much more she wanted to say to him, but she didn't know how to say it. More than anything, she wanted to get to know him, but he just seemed so…closed off, like there was a wall between them. She wondered what he thought of her, and remembered that day at the cave when she'd found him, crying alone in the dark. He had seemed so grateful to her then, for coming to him and trying her best to comfort him, but lately he'd seemed like he would rather do anything than be around her, unless they were having a lesson. All she wanted was to talk to him, to have some kind of normal relationship with the man who'd saved her life. Now she found herself thinking, much to her disappointment, that maybe Erik was a lost cause. _No, _she told herself. _There's no such thing as a lost cause. _She would never stop trying.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Erik couldn't look at her. He knew she was upset because of him, and he hated that. He couldn't talk to her either. What could he say? She was right about everything…when they were speaking of music, or when he was teaching her more about it, he _was_ almost happy. Being able to teach her was incredible; she was a wonderful student. She was a good friend too. But that was the problem. Every time, after a lesson, he would realize how much he'd been letting his guard down, and that upset him.

He couldn't let himself get too close to her. Their friendship, if it could truly be called that, meant so much to him, but he was torn. Whether she was with him or away from him, she was always on his mind, somewhere, but he couldn't let himself lose sight of what was most important: Christine and him. The more time he spent with Alana, the less time he spent thinking of Christine. Sometimes, he didn't even think of her at all. Even if it was just for a moment at a time, the thought worried him. True love wasn't supposed to die. He had to keep fighting. He couldn't forget her; he'd sworn there would never be a day where he would not think of her.

Erik didn't know how to be a good friend to Alana. He knew he could not spend too much time with her, could not get too close to her, and yet he wished he could. She wondered what the problem with him was, but he couldn't tell her. She deserved better than to know the truth, that if he was not always extremely careful, that if he let his guard down too much with her, even for a little while, there was a very real danger of him forgetting Christine. Forgetting his first love, his only love. _No, _he told himself. _I will not let that happen. _He would never let Christine go again.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

It didn't take long for them to find the street Alana's uncle lived on. There was the church, large but nothing compared to the towering cathedrals in Paris like Notre Dame, and there was her uncle's house right across the street, a charming building. It was old, but freshly painted in bright white, and there were colorful flowers in holders under every window. Alana smiled. There was one thing that was still just the same as she'd remembered.

"Well, this is it," she said. "We're finally here." She got down from the driver's seat. "Do you want to come with me to the door?"

"No."

She sighed. "Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"All right. Are you willing to stay right here then? I'll be back in a minute."

He nodded slightly, and she went up to the front door of her uncle's house, her heart pounding. She hadn't seen him or his family in years, and the thought of seeing them again made her nervous. What if they didn't remember her? Or worse, what if they didn't like her anymore? What if, in secret, they'd never liked her in the first place? Alana just stood there in front of the door, afraid to knock, until she realized how silly she was being. She and Erik had come all this way, and not for her to just stand there, too scared to speak to her own flesh and blood. She knocked on the door.

Soon, it opened, and there was her uncle, dressed in a crisp brown day suit, looking like she recalled, the only difference being that he was a little older now, his hair gone gray. His eyes, like her father's, she noticed for the first time, looked at her in a kind, friendly way. "Good morning, mademoiselle. How may I help you today?" There was no trace of recognition in his eyes at all.

Alana didn't know what to say. "Um…I…"

"Yes?" Her uncle waited patiently for her to find her words.

Finally she did. "Uncle Raimond." She saw his expression change from common friendliness to surprise. "It's me, Alana."

He was taken aback. "Alana? No, surely it can't be! The last time I saw you, you were but this high!" He stooped and held his hand palm down near his hip. "But it is you," he said, smiling at her. "You're wearing your mother's necklace."

Alana's hand went to the locket.

"And you look just like her. Absolutely beautiful. Why…what's wrong, child?"

Alana couldn't hold it in. She burst into tears and threw her arms around her uncle. He patted her on the back, and she pulled away, looking sadly at his concerned, caring face. How could she tell him?

"What's troubling you, my dear niece?" he asked.

"It's my mother," she said.

"What about her? Is Una all right?"

"She's dead."

Raimond brought her inside the house and into the sitting room, where he sat her down on the soft couch and took a seat beside her. His face had gone pale, and his eyes had become red and watery. He'd had no idea of what had happened to Alana's mother. Her father hadn't wanted to have a typical funeral. He and Alana had buried Una alone, on a cold, dark, rainy winter morning. After that, Andre had lost contact with everyone he'd ever known, except his daughter, but even the relationship they'd had…it was shattered. He and his half-brother Raimond had once been very close, despite the arguments they'd had from time to time about religion-Andre had never been interested in church and all that went with it-but after Una died, Andre had made no effort to get in touch with his half-brother again. Alana would have written to him, but she hadn't known the address. Now as she looked at her uncle's shock and grief, she felt as if she were reliving the day her mother died.

"What happened?" Raimond asked numbly.

"Pneumonia," Alana managed to say.

Raimond closed his eyes. "She was so young."

Alana nodded and a whole new flood of tears ran down her face.

"But we must be of good cheer," her uncle said, trying his best to smile. "Una is with the Lord now. She's happy, and she would want the same for the people she loved." He patted Alana on the shoulder, and she nodded. Her uncle was right. She knew her mother would have wanted her to be happy, so she tried her best every day to put on a brave face and be cheerful, and live each moment as if it were her last. That's what her mother had done. And that's why she hadn't been afraid, even when she was so terribly sick, dying.

"How's Andre?" Raimond asked.

More tears. Alana just shook her head, and her uncle's expression grew panicked.

"Don't tell me he's gone too!"

"No," Alana said between sobs. "He's alive, if you can call it that. He…he hasn't been himself, since my mother died, and that…" she trailed off.

"What is it, child?"

"That's why I'm here today. I couldn't stay there anymore."

"Couldn't stay? Why not? He's alone now? What's happened? Did he…no, he couldn't! He didn't hurt you, did he?"

She looked at him sadly. "He's not himself. I don't know _what _he is anymore. I…left a note, telling the family I worked for to take care of him…I need to write to them now, as soon as possible and ask how he's doing."

"Your mother died several years ago, Alana," Raimond said, grief-stricken and choking out the words despite his best attempts to keep a brave face. "What made you decide to leave, now?"

She took a deep breath. "One night, not long ago, my father got very angry with me. I was so afraid. He had been angry with me many times before, but I had never seen him so furious as he was that night. I wanted to get away, but I couldn't." She couldn't bring herself to say the words "he was hitting me." She couldn't bear to tell Raimond exactly what his beloved half-brother had become. "Then, someone saved me. Took me away, and convinced me to come here to Paris, to find you. The man outside with the black horse and cart, wearing a dark cloak…did you see him?"

"Yes, I saw him. That's the man who saved you?"

Alana nodded. "He's saved me more than once, actually. Without him, I don't know what would have happened to me."

"Well, you are very lucky to have him, my dear. Is he still outside? We must bring him inside too. We can't just leave him waiting out there alone." Raimond got up.

"He won't come inside."

"Why not?"

"I already asked him. He wouldn't come to the door with me. He's very shy."

"As I recall, so were you, my little niece," Raimond said, smiling a little. "He must come inside, I insist. It's already such a hot day."

"I wish he would come inside too, but there's no arguing with him. He doesn't like other people very much."

"He likes you. Otherwise he wouldn't have gone to all the trouble to save your life multiple times and bring you here."

That struck Alana hard. It was true. But why, of all people, was he able to face her? Could it be because she had not pestered him about the mask when she'd first met him? She'd been so confused and curious about it, but she'd wanted to wait for him to explain it himself.

"By the way my dear, you are very welcome to stay with us. There is more than enough room for you, and your friend, should he change his mind."

It would be so wonderful if Erik chose to stay with them, she thought. She's been with him nearly every waking moment for the past days, and the thought of being without him now seemed so strange, unimaginable even. "I'll go ask him again," she told her uncle. "Maybe he will change his mind."

"Would it be all right if I joined you?" Raimond asked. "I'd very much like to meet the man who saved my niece's life?"

"I think it might be all right," Alana said, "but let me go first. And I should give you a warning about him."

"A warning?" Raimond raised an eyebrow.

"My friend…Erik. He wears a mask. Whatever you do, don't stare at it, don't ask about it. He wears it because he got a very bad injury to his face in the war, and he's terribly ashamed because of it."

"But there is no shame in battle scars…"

Alana smiled sadly. "That's what I tried to tell him, but like I said, there's no arguing with him. But who knows? Maybe he'll come to his senses someday." She hoped for it more than anything. "I hope he does decide to stay. It would be wonderful if he could get to know you. Maybe you could help him. Goodness knows how much I've tried. He's a good man, I know it, but he's been suffering so much for a long time."

Raimond smiled back at her. "You truly are your mother's child. She was always trying to help the people around her, even if she didn't know them, or if they didn't deserve her kindness. She taught me a thing or two about life, and even though I became the leader of an entire congregation, I've always believed she knew more about the ways of God than I ever could."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Erik saw Alana and the gray-haired man come out of the house, his arm on his niece's shoulder. He quickly averted his gaze, not wanting to look into the face of a clergyman.

"Erik?" Alana was standing in front of him now, and her uncle had stayed on the sidewalk. "My uncle wants to meet you very much."

Why? So he could condemn him? He had other plans. "I don't have time. I have to find a place to stay."

"He says you can stay here…"

"No. I don't want to intrude…"

"But there's plenty of room, my uncle said so. Please stay." She was sincere. He could tell she really did want him to stay, but there was no way he would share a home with a clergyman, and his family. Or Alana. It couldn't possibly end well.

"No," he said again. "I would prefer to find a place of my own. Here." He handed her the bag that contained her two other dresses. "I will be back tonight at ten for our lesson."

"Ten? But the curfew…"

"I'll be here tonight. Walk on, Raven." And with that, he drove off, leaving Alana staring after him in frustration. As soon as he was out of sight of her and the clergyman uncle and away from that church, he felt a wave of relief wash over him, though he didn't have the faintest idea of where he would go from here.


	15. Wanted

Chapter Fifteen

_You have driven me out from the face of the earth; and from Your face shall I be hid; and I shall be a fugitive and a wanderer on the earth, and it shall come to pass, that anyone that finds me shall slay me. -_Genesis 4:14

Wanted

_Many years ago, as a small child, Erik often walked the streets alone. He was very young at the time, but he had explored every inch of the town he lived in, staying in the shadows and keeping his distance from everyone else. At times though, he slipped up. Occasionally people saw him, most of the time when he wore his mask. But the crude cloth mask was uncomfortable and rough against his face, and sometimes he took it off. And sometimes people saw him. Men, women, and children would catch a glimpse of him, and they would be afraid. Sometimes they would cover their mouths and back away, unable to speak. Sometimes they would scream, and sometimes they would shout insults at him. He'd learned long ago to avoid the other children-they were the worst of all. He hated coming in contact with other people, but he also hated staying in that dark, dirty apartment, alone or with his mother._

_His favorite place to visit in that town was a big stone building that had a tower with the shape of a cross on the top, and huge windows of colored glass. Erik never went inside, because he knew there were people in there. At particular times, as he sat outside the building he could hear them singing, or playing music. They were beautiful songs, and he wished he could join the people inside and make music with them, and maybe show them some of the songs he liked to sing, too. But he was afraid of the people on the inside. Sometimes they would come out, and see him, and they would stare at him or drive him away._

_A few years later on a cold, rainy day, thanks to a careless mistake by his master's son, who had left the door open for more than a split second, he'd escaped from his cage at the fair and run away. He was in an unfamiliar town and had no idea where he was running in the dark, but he ran until his bare feet bled. He threw the stupid sackcloth shroud his tormentors made him wear into the mud. People jumped aside as he passed by, their faces shocked and appalled by his, but he ran blindly through the rain, unaware of anything except his own pain and his desperation to get away from everything around him._

_Along the way, something made Erik stop. He was standing before a large stone building, with a steeple and windows of colored glass, much like the one he had visited when he was smaller. Though the doors were closed, he could hear music and people singing on the inside. He stopped to listen, closing his eyes and letting the music wash over him like the rain and drown out all the hurt. Suddenly, he opened his eyes, and took a step forward. This would be the perfect place to live. He could hear the music, and hide from the gypsies. Surely people like them would never be able to find him in a place like this. By now the music had stopped, but he continued to walk slowly, cautiously toward the entrance. He was about to open the big doors when they opened themselves._

_A flood of people rushed out, hurrying through the rain to get back to their carriages parked alongside the building. There were a few screams as people caught glimpses of him. Erik put one hand to his face to hide his hideousness from them, and kept trying to fight his way through the crowd, but everyone was bigger than he was, and they pushed him back further from the door. Then he bumped into someone his own size._

"_Devil's child?" Big dark eyes looked at him in surprise mixed with disgust, and little olive-colored hands moved up and down, left and right, in the shape of a cross._

_Emilian and his mother, escaped from the fair as well, gone to take refuge in this great building from the other crazy, stupid people with the circus._

"_Emilian! You and your mother grab hold of him!" a harsh voice shouted. His master. Erik spun around. There were some of the gypsies pushing their way towards him. Emilian's hands grabbed his left wrist, and his mother seized his right, but to their surprise, Erik was stronger than both of them, and he jerked free of their grasp._ _It was too late. By then the others had reached him, and they dragged him off again. A crowd of people stood and watched in horror, but they just stared, not lifting a finger to help the deformed, terrified child. Erik stared back at the onlookers with cold, dead eyes as he was taken again to the fair. The gypsies mocked him as they always did while they made their way back._

"_Did you really think you could escape from me, you little bastard?" His master snarled, slapping him across the disfigured half of his face._

"_Ha! Did you really think you could walk into that church?" Another one laughed. "You, the spawn of Satan himself?"_

"_God would strike a little demon like you dead the moment you walked through the doors!"_

The gypsies had never given Erik reason to believe anything they said, but they were right about one thing: a church was no place for a monster like him. He was so relieved to be at a distance from Alana's uncle and his church. In a little while, he found a place where he could board Raven for a reasonable price. After he left his horse and cart and paid the stable owner, who eyed him in his black cloak nervously but gladly took what Erik offered him, he realized that he was almost out of money, and didn't have enough to rent an apartment, or even buy food and drink. He panicked for a brief moment, but then he remembered…he still had millions of francs left underground, far below the Opera Populaire.

He was now faced with three extremely unpleasant options: return and stay with Alana and that clergyman's family, go back underground for the first time in months and collect the rest of his money, or live on the streets. He made his choice quickly. He didn't want to return to the Opera House by any means, not without Christine by his side. That was the place they belonged together. Without her, it would be just an empty ruin, full of haunting sorrow and despair that would torment him relentlessly. But it was better than the alternatives. He would go back to the Opera House alone just this once to collect what he needed, and someday, very soon he hoped, he would return there with Christine, and they would live the secret life of music and happiness they had dreamed of, just the two of them, the way it should be. _But_, he couldn't help but wonder, _where would Alana fit in all of that?_

From where he was, Erik was unsure of how to get to the Opera Populaire, but he knew he was close. They were in one of the wealthiest areas of Paris, so he began to look for an open place where he might be able to catch a glimpse of the towering theater. He moved quickly, the other people in the street moving out of the way as he strode past them. He came across a bridge passing over the Seine river, from which he could see the Paris skyline, and after a while he was able to make out the Opera House roof. Immediately he set off in that direction, quickening his stride even more.

It was a long walk, and the summer sun beat down hard on him, dressed all in black. He was so hot that he began to think that maybe going back underground wouldn't be so bad after all. As he forced himself to endure the heat, and drew nearer to his destination, he began to notice a strange, common occurrence; the closer he got, the more houses were abandoned and the more shops stood empty, out of business. Then he finally reached the Opera Populaire. He stopped and stared.

What was once glory, was now ruin.

Just looking at it sent a shiver down his spine in spite of the hot day. He was surprised to find the building appearing completely deserted. All the windows were broken, the shattered glass lying in jagged shards on the cracking stone steps. The outer surface of the building was black with soot. It was as if the fire had happened yesterday. After all these months, there had clearly been no attempt to rebuild the Opera House.

Why? he wondered. He didn't understand how such an incredible place could be allowed to just sit there, empty and in ruins. The whole city was looking a bit more rundown now than usual, but the Opera Populaire was the worst-looking building he had seen since he'd come. He was loath to enter, but he had no other choice. Erik moved forward, and bent down to walk through a gaping hole in the once-great front doors. He stepped inside and let his hood down, and as he entered a flock of startled birds shot up from scattered nests that lay everywhere and flew outside through the hole in the door.

Ash and debris were scattered all across the blackened floor. He made his way downstairs to where the dressing rooms were, the place that held the most secret passageways leading underground. Strangely, as he walked he began to hear voices talking. At first he thought it was just his imagination, but no, he really could hear people talking. Perhaps it was a crew there to clean up the debris and rebuild. In the late Ubaldo Piangi's dressing room across the hall, he spied a group of shabbily dressed men sitting on the sooty floor in a circle, playing cards. Erik quickly realized these were not workers, but just a bunch of petty thieves and vagabonds. Since the Opera House had been freed of its usual inhabitants, it must have become a place of refuge for the homeless of Paris.

At least it was finally rid of the rich, arrogant fools that had always been plentiful there, Erik thought to himself as he turned the corner toward what had once served as Christine's dressing room. He pushed open what was left of the door, and an entire family-a husband, wife, and three children, all dressed in tattered rags-looked up from what they were doing and jumped at the sight of him.

"My God!" the husband exclaimed. His two sons began to tremble and his little girl began to cry. "It's the master of this place," he whispered.

"Please, have mercy on us," the mother begged, clasping her hands together.

Ignoring them all, Erik walked past, took the lantern they had been huddling around, and went to the gold-framed mirror that still stood on the far side of the room. He tried not to look at the burnt furniture, charred beyond recognition, or at the broken vases that had once held masses of flowers for Christine, but he couldn't help but notice the remains of a single rose lying on the floor, now no more than a stem and a pile of shrunken, shriveled petals. Around the stem was tied a soft black ribbon.

Despite himself, he stopped. A cold stab of painful remembrance lanced through his heart. He bent down to pick up the dead flower, but at his touch it disintegrated into a pile of black dust. His life was like that flower, he thought. When Christine had left him, he had died on the inside and his life had fallen into confusion and nothingness.

"Maman, why is the ghost so sad?" One of the little boys asked.

"Ghosts often are," his mother replied, still looking at Erik wide-eyed and afraid.

So, Erik thought, the legend of the Phantom had not disappeared when he'd left the Opera House. He took the lantern up again and reached out to touch the mirror. He remembered vividly that night when he'd stood on the opposite side of the glass, watching in almost unbelieving, heart-pounding wonder as his angel had made her way across the room to join him on the other side. He found the right place and pulled.

There was a blast of cold, damp air as the glass moved to the side, revealing the secret door into the darkened tunnel. The family of vagabonds was staring at him in astonishment. At that moment, he had a sudden urge to give them the little money he had left in his pocket, and he tossed the coins across the dressing room to where they sat. Then, with a dramatic swish of his cape-he might as well give them a good show since they'd been fortunate enough to see the Phantom-he stepped through the doorway and then slid the mirror back into place. Alone again, in the familiar dark tunnel he could have walked blindfolded.

He made his way down, down, down the winding staircase into the underground labyrinth. Along the way the light from the lantern revealed a few scattered skeletons, ones that had not been there before. They must have been people who had hunted for him, but ultimately fallen prey to the darkness and danger of his old, secret world. Finally he made it to one of his storerooms, the largest of them, where he stored his millions.

A large stone stood on one end of the room; Erik went up to it and pushed it with all his might, muscles straining as he slowly forced it to one side. He stopped to catch his breath and wipe off the beads of sweat that'd formed on his forehead, then knelt down.

There in front of him was a hole in the floor, and inside, a simple drab-looking brown suitcase. He pulled it out of the hole and opened it. With a click, the lid popped up, revealing millions upon millions of francs. Twenty thousand a month from the different theater owners, plus additional funds from various people he had blackmailed over the years, really added up. He ran his fingers over the paper bills, accumulated in masses over time. With this amount of money, he could buy anything, go anywhere, but he took no pride in his wealth. Money couldn't give him the only thing he really wanted: for his angel to love him as much as he loved her.

Erik closed the suitcase again and left the storehouse, making his way back up the staircase. It seemed he climbed alone in the darkness for an eternity, but then he came to a small door that would go unnoticed by all but those who knew it was there. He put down the lantern and his suitcase, and placed his hands on the damp rock wall, feeling for the right place. Then, something gave. He pushed, and the rock slid aside, revealing a doorway that led into a shady alleyway behind the Opera House. He took his things and walked into the alley, sliding the door closed behind him.

A quick glance upward showed that the sun was sinking lower in the sky. Sunset was approaching, which made him feel more at ease. He started off down the alley, thinking about where he would go and what he would do. It wouldn't be long until the lesson with Alana, so as he went on his way he began thinking of what he would say and what songs they would sing.

Like the rest of the area surrounding the Opera Populaire, the alley was deserted, still, and eerily quiet. Even the sound of Erik's footsteps, quieter than most, seemed almost unbearably loud and obtrusive. He felt tense, on edge, an odd feeling in the pit of his stomach. He stopped walking and glanced around the alley, searching for something, anything, not knowing why. Erik turned around and saw nothing.

Then, from somewhere, he heard a very faint _click. _His head shot up, scanning the tall building adjoining the Opera House. He didn't know what this building was, but that was irrelevant; he could have sworn the click had come from above, perhaps from beyond the open window on the top floor. For a while, he just stood there, watching and waiting, but in time he began to think his paranoid mind was just playing tricks on him, as it often did. Erik shook his head at his own foolishness and resumed walking. He needed to find an apartment to rent soon, before sundown.

Then there was a deafening clap of thunder. Something shot through the air, whizzing past mere centimeters from the side of Erik's head. Not thunder. A gunshot. From some far-up window came a voice, cursing, and another earsplitting crack, another bullet narrowly missing him. Someone was shooting at him.

He broke into a mad dash, turning a corner and ducking into a different alley. He found a outdoor stairwell, leading underground into the basement of an apartment building, and hid there, where he would be out of sight from anyone who might be pursuing him.

Erik closed his eyes and tried to calm his racing heart. He set down the suitcase and sank wearily onto the hard ground. It was now that he realized he hadn't slept since that first night in Rouen. He hadn't had anything to eat or drink that entire day either; the day was still blazing hot and his throat ached with thirst. Forcing himself to fight off the exhaustion and unconsciousness that threatened to overtake him, he made himself open his tired eyes.

His left hand was brushing up against something on the ground…what was it? He looked down, and saw that it was a piece of paper lying facedown on the pavement.

When he turned it over and took in the words, the images, his heart stopped.

Scrawled in night-black ink, a horrifying demonic figure, colorless but with eyes that seemed to burn with all the fires of hell. Alongside it, a less detailed pencil drawing of a more refined-looking man in evening dress, wearing a white half-mask. Then the huge text boldly proclaiming:

WANTED: DEAD OR ALIVE

FOR THE CRIMES OF BLACKMAIL, THEFT, DESTRUCTION OF PUBLIC PROPERTY, ARSON, KIDNAPPING, MANSLAUGHTER, AND MURDER!

REWARD: 100,000 FRANCS

FOR THE CAPTURE OF THE "OPERA GHOST", "THE PHANTOM,"

THE MONSTER STRAIGHT FROM HELL!

_It's me._

Erik was stunned. People were out looking for him, trying to capture or kill him…he'd just been shot at by someone after the reward money they'd get if they killed him.

Everything had gone all cold. He'd known that mobs had chased after him the night of the accident, but he'd somehow thought that the people of Paris would have forgotten him by now. He'd been a fool to believe that…what had happened that night was not something so easily forgotten. He was a wanted man. If captured, he knew he would be sent to the gallows without question. He was guilty. He deserved to die for what he had done.

But that didn't mean he wanted to die.

He took his suitcase and got to his feet, still clutching the battered wanted poster in his hand. The sun was sinking even lower; time had run out. He would never find a good place to rent now, so he would have to find somewhere to hide during the night. He hurried off down side streets, searching for some place he could stay until later that evening, but finding nothing.

A man with a wooden leg hobbled down the side street a little ways off. _He may recognize me. _Erik dashed around the corner before the man had a chance to spot him. He peered back down the alley and watched the one-legged man limp out of sight. He breathed a sigh of relief.

Then there was a hand on his shoulder.


	16. Familiar Face

Chapter Sixteen

_A real friend is someone who walks in when the rest of the world walks out- _Walter Winchell

Familiar Face

Spinning around to face this new attacker, panicked but determined to destroy the opponent in hand-to-hand combat, Erik suddenly found himself facing a slender woman leaning on a walking cane, her long hair tightly braided.

"Good evening, Monsieur Erik," said Madame Giry.

Erik felt a strange combination of extreme surprise and immense relief as he stood face to face once more with the person he had known longer than any other. His heart hammered in his ears and he tried to speak, but nothing would come out but a single word.

"You."

Madame Giry raised an eyebrow. "I can see your manners haven't improved since I saw you last." She looked knowingly at the wanted poster he still clutched in his hand. "What are you doing here?"

"It doesn't matter. I have to get out of here, _now_. I was just shot at, and whoever the shot came from could still be after me." He heard shouting from somewhere nearby and turned to run off, but Madame Giry seized his wrist.

"Come with me," she said, and wordlessly Erik followed her. The shouts grew nearer, and the two of them broke into a run, Madame Giry pulling Erik along by the arm through the winding alleyways. In time, it seemed they'd lost Erik's pursuers, but neither one of them slowed the pace for a second. By now they'd come out of the dark alleys, but Madame Giry led him through a series of backstreets, making sure to stay out of sight. As they ran, Erik couldn't help but be reminded of a time, long ago, when a younger Antoinette had helped to rescue him and led him to safety.

In spite of the breakneck pace Erik noticed the buildings around them becoming finer and finer. Finally Madame Giry stopped at the back of a large building. As they both stopped to catch their breath, Erik set down his suitcase and looked at the wanted poster in his hands once more. He glanced nervously over his shoulder, but there was no one else in the backstreet at the moment. He wondered how many people were out there, looking for him. _Hunted down by everyone, met with hatred everywhere…_

He tore the paper to shreds, and the pieces blew away with the summer breeze.

"Wait here," Madame Giry told him as she opened a back door and disappeared inside, leaving Erik standing in the street. He looked up at the building…it was huge, and its architecture was old-fashioned, but it was in excellent condition. If there wasn't the threat of him being arrested or shot on sight, he would have liked to go around and see the front of the building, which had to be stunning if the back was this impressive.

Then Madame Giry opened the door again, looking nervously to her left and right, and behind her. "Come inside, quickly. The hallway is empty for now but we must hurry." Erik took the suitcase and rushed inside, following her at a brisk pace through a hallway and down a flight of stairs that led into another hall, dimly lit. Surprising, for a building that had appeared so fine on the outside.

They came to the last door and Madame Giry went to open it, but it was locked. She muttered something under her breath and felt around for what should have been her key, but she couldn't find it. Then they heard it…footsteps coming down the stairs. They exchanged panicked glances, but Erik had a solution. He reached into his cloak and pulled out his skeleton key. He fiddled with the lock, but his hands shook and were slippery with sweat.

"Hurry!" Madame Giry urged him through clenched teeth.

Why couldn't he open the blasted lock? The footsteps had almost reached the bottom of the stairs…they would be here in seconds and the game would be up. He, and probably Madame Giry too for helping him, would be dragged off to prison, and…

The lock clicked.

"Go!"

He pushed the door open and they both rushed inside, Antoinette slamming the door shut behind them. They both just stood there panting, backs against the door. They'd made it.

Then there was a knock.

"Quick, into the bedroom!" Madame Giry whispered. Erik ran into the room, very sparsely furnished, with nothing but two small beds, a washbasin, and an armoire. There. He let go of his suitcase and threw open the armoire, squeezing past the hanging clothes into the cramped dark space, and closed the door behind him. Even shut inside the armoire, he could hear everything that went on in the parlor through the apartment's thin walls.

More knocking on the door.

"Who's there?" he heard Madame Giry ask. A muffled female voice from the outside answered, and then he heard the front door open.

"Maman, are you all right? You look as if you've seen a ghost!"

No response at first, then, "Oh, I'm quite all right, my dear."

"That's good. You scared me." A pause. "Wait a minute…I had the key to the apartment right here, and you were still out when I left to help serve the dinner upstairs. I locked the door when I left…so how did you get in?'

"You must not have locked it after all," Madame Giry's voice said. She sounded tense. "Because I got in."

"All right then," Antoinette's daughter's voice replied. "I'll just go into the bedroom and change out of this hideous uniform…"

"No! Wait!"

"What?"

"Meg! You can't go in there, not yet!"

"Maman, are you sure you're all right? You're scaring me again. I'll just be a second."

"No, my dear…"

But Erik heard the footsteps approaching. His heart started pounding again. But maybe she wouldn't need to open the…

The door was thrown open, and a hand took a dress from its hanger.

Then Meg saw him.

She screamed, jumping back and dropping the dress. Erik just sat there paralyzed, not knowing quite what to do. He saw Madame Giry hurry into the room and clap her hand over Meg's mouth.

"Hush, Meg. It's all right. Erik, come out of there!" Painfully, he squeezed his way back out of the armoire and stood up. Madame Giry took her hand away from her daughter's mouth. Meg just stared at Erik, eyes wide.

"What's he doing here?"

"I just found him a little while ago, roaming the alleys around the Opera House. Someone had taken a few shots at him, and I had to get him out before they found him again. He'll be safe here, as long as we don't let anyone else see him."

By now Meg had calmed down a little from her initial shock at seeing the former Phantom hiding inside her armoire, but she still eyed him warily.

"Come with me, Erik, we'll let her change." Madame Giry pulled him out of the bedroom and closed the door. "Have a seat," she said, gesturing toward a battered old couch. "You look exhausted."

Erik sank down, and closed his eyes. He _was _exhausted.

"Here you are, then," Madame Giry said. He opened his eyes-it had only been a few moments but he had already almost fallen asleep on the couch. Meg had come out of the bedroom wearing a rather shabby blue dress, and Madame Giry instructed her to pour a glass of wine and hand it to Erik. Meg's eyes grew wide, but she obeyed silently and walked slowly toward him. Erik saw her biting her lip. She was trembling, too, and though she stared at him, she would not meet his gaze. He reached out and took the wineglass from her shaking hands, and downed the drink immediately.

"Thank you, Meg," he said softly. He knew she was afraid of him, and he didn't want her to be.

"Y-you're welcome," she stammered. Why wouldn't she be afraid of him? She'd never truly met him, only seen and heard of the things he'd done, witnessed him murder Joseph Buquet, and had been there when he'd brought down the chandelier and destroyed the Opera House. Anyone in their right mind would be afraid of him after all that. Even Antoinette feared him, as she always had; he could see it in her eyes.

"Pour Monsieur Erik another glass of wine, my dear, while I warm up the stew. There's some bread here on the counter for him as well."

Meg poured him another glass, three more in fact, and watched as Erik wolfed down all the bread and the warm meat stew as soon as it was put in front of him. Madame Giry shook her head as she too watched him devour the meal. "When was the last time you ate?"

Erik didn't answer; he was too busy finishing off the last of the loaf of bread.

"You have not been taking care of yourself, have you?" she asked, looking concerned.

"I have," he answered, indignant. "But the past few days have been…rough, for me."

Madame Giry raised that eyebrow again, while Meg sat silently in a chair on the other side of the room. "Where have you been all this time?"

He sighed. "I left Paris and found a place to hide near Détente, a small town north of here."

"And what brings you back here now?"

He'd come to bring Alana to her family, and teach her music. And to find Christine. But he wasn't sure Madame Giry would react well to such news. He decided to say, "I was helping…someone to find their family."

"Really? That was a noble thing for you to do," she said, taken aback. "And did you succeed?"

Erik nodded.

"So what do you plan to do now? Honestly, your timing could not possibly be any worse. Had you returned a few months ago, you would have been hailed as a hero for destroying the Opera House, a place supposedly infested with rich aristocrats. But now that the Commune has been finished off, you're a wanted man again. Take my word for it, there are many people out searching for you. You're not safe here. And who is this person you speak of?"

"One of the people from Détente…she shows great potential in music. I was planning to stay in Paris to teach her, but now I am not sure…"

"Teach her?" Madame Giry interrupted, looking worried. "Who exactly are you talking about, Erik?"

He knew what she was thinking. She was wrong. This was a completely different situation. "Her name is Alana. She needed my help, and I brought her to a place where she could be safe. She's my friend." His heart began to beat faster as he spoke. It felt so good to say those last three words, even better than he had dreamed it would be as a child.

Madame Giry gave him a strange look.

"Like I said, she's a friend." _Why is my heart beating so fast? _"Nothing more."

"Very well," Madame Giry said. "Where is this…friend of yours now?"

"Staying with her uncle. And where exactly are we?" Erik wanted to know.

She took a deep breath. "This is part of the servants' quarters in the Marquis de Bellamy's city house. Meg and I have been working here for the past two months. You are welcome to live here with us as long as you need to, providing you stay out of sight at all costs. This city is a very dangerous place for you now."

"You work here now? A dance instructor and a ballerina? What do you do?"

A shadow passed over Antoinette's face briefly, but she quickly regained her composure and said, "I am the new housekeeper here, and Meg helps to serve the meals and wash the dishes."

"No…you both are so talented…this is such a waste of your gifts." He glanced over at Meg, who blushed and looked away. "You deserve better than this." He motioned toward the suitcase. "I have my life savings in that case, and I'm willing to share whatever I have with you, to help you buy a new house and whatever else you need."

Madame Giry shook her head, looking at the suitcase of money as if it were an illicit substance. It wouldn't surprise him if she refused to touch any of it…she knew how he had gotten that money. "No, Monsieur Erik. Meg and I have always taken care of ourselves. Besides, the Marquis de Bellamy and his family are very kind, and my daughter and I are happy here. But…" she seemed rather surprised by something. "It was good of you to offer us your help." Erik could see her looking at him, studying him, as if she were searching for something. Like somehow she was having trouble recognizing him. But that was just foolishness; she had known him longer than anyone. He was about to check the time when there was a sudden knock on the door.

"Quick! Back into the bedroom!" Madame Giry whispered to Erik, who, way ahead of her, was already rushing inside.

From the bedroom, he heard a man come to the door, inviting both Girys to come across the hall and play cards with the rest of the staff. Meg made a hasty escape, but Antoinette politely declined.

"All right Erik," she said when the door was closed. "It's safe to come out again."

While he'd been waiting for the guest to leave, Erik had pulled out his pocket watch. Nine forty-five. He was meant to meet Alana in fifteen minutes!

"I'm going out," he stated as he went back into the main room.

"What? No, Monsieur Erik, you can't go out there now. It's past curfew. There will be soldiers everywhere."

Erik just shot her a look that said he couldn't possibly care less about the curfew; he could easily keep out of sight. "How do I get to Sacree Boulevard from here?"

Madame Giry sighed. "A little while ago you were running for your life after being shot at. It's dangerous out there, Erik. For everyone. Especially a wanted man."

He frowned, and moved closer. "Tell me," he said coldly, looking down on her, "how to get to Sacree Boulevard."

She backed away and let out a deep breath.

And in no time at all Erik was climbing out the window down the hall. Outside, rain had begun to fall, the drops hitting the hot pavement, and sending up a wave of steam into the evening air. Erik made his way around the front of the beautiful city house and stopped for a moment to put up his hood. He also happened to glance inside a window.

Behind it he saw a brightly lit room full of people talking and laughing together. They seemed so…normal, so happy. They had something he could never have. It was surprisingly hard for him to tear his gaze away from the happy picture before him, as he stood alone in the rainy street.

But then two almost ominous figures appeared directly in front of the window, blocking the view. A dark-haired man and another, red-headed one, their faces blurred by the rain on the windowpane, seemed to stare out at him, seeking to drive him away from that place where he knew he would never belong.

Erik stole away into the night, to the place where he knew Alana would be waiting for him.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Alana read and reread her new letter to Madame Marguerite back in Détente, trying to take in everything that had happened, attempting to make sense of it all. Ten years ago, her life had been complete. She'd had everything she needed; a safe home on beautiful farm near a wonderful small town where she had many friends her own age, and most importantly, she had a perfect, happy family. And then her mother had to die.

At first she was as bitter as her father, but then she'd realized that Una wouldn't have wanted her to waste her life being unhappy. She would have wanted her to be content, and move on, not to think of sadness but to dream of the day they could see each other again. To make each one of the days of her life matter. Alana still thought of her mother often, and her heart ached every day and night from missing her, but she had slowly learned to move on with her life.

Her father hadn't. She worried about him so much. She feared for his health, physical, mental, spiritual. He was a completely broken man, and he'd alienated himself from everyone in his life, even his daughter. Alana prayed for healing for her father every night, but ten years later, no help had come for him. As she looked over the letter she'd written, asking about how things in Détente had been, but mostly about how Andre had been, she wondered if help would ever come. She wanted to believe that he would get better, but maybe her faith wasn't as strong as she'd thought it was, or maybe God just _didn't want_ her father to get better, for whatever reason. _Why? _she wondered. _Why did this have to happen to our family?_

She tried to push her questions and doubts and unhappy thoughts to the back of her mind. Earlier that day, she'd been able to get reacquainted with her aunt Amé lie and her cousin Cerise, who'd arrived from a shopping trip soon after Erik had disappeared. They had welcomed her with open arms; her aunt was the very image of hospitality, and Cerise was delighted to see her long-lost cousin again. There was the sad time when Alana and Raimond had to tell them what had happened to Una, and Andre as well, but her aunt, uncle, and cousin were so full of hope and inner joy that they couldn't stay sad for long, choosing to rejoice that Una was with the God she had loved so much.

Alana had made her best effort to be happy like they were. They were all such pleasant company; she and Cerise had talked all day about the long-ago memories they shared of playing together as little children, and of Cerise's new plans to show her all the places she liked to go and to introduce Alana to each and every one of her friends. Now as she sat alone in the spare bedroom lit by candlelight, listening to the raindrops on the roof and reflecting on the day's experiences, she could say that she was glad she had come. But as she looked at Raimond and Amé lie and Cerise and how happy they were together as a family, she couldn't help but think how much they were like what her own family had once been. They had the life she'd once had, and lost, the life that she wished she could have back more than anything in the whole world. They'd welcomed her into their home, and she appreciated their kindness so much, but she still found herself feeling out of place there.

Like an outcast, moving through life like a phantom, watching the world go by around her without truly being a part of it, without belonging anywhere at all.

She glanced up from her letter to the clock on the wall. Ten o'clock. In spite of everything, a smile spread across her face. She tiptoed quietly down the stairs, careful not to disturb her sleeping relatives, and made her way to the large window in the front room, pulling back the curtain and looking out across the rainy streets, waiting for Erik to come. The thought of his return made the dark night seem just a little bit brighter.


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N- Sorry about the long wait, guys! I was on vacation and had a major case of writer's block...this chapter was harder to write than I thought! I hope you enjoy it...please feel free to review! **

Chapter Seventeen

Erik passed through magnificent parks and neat, empty streets with fine buildings on either side until he came to the house down the lane across from the stone church. The house was smaller than many of the others, but it had charming architecture, and there was a light in one of the windows. Alana was standing there, waiting for him, the whole house dark but the place where she stood. She could see him now; he saw her face brighten up even more all of a sudden, a smile spreading across her face. It was ironic, he thought, that someone like her had been waiting up for him, was glad to see someone like him. A light waiting to meet the darkness.

She left the window, and the world grew colder until she appeared again, opening the front door. "Come inside."

He came inside, into a well-furnished parlor with portraits and photographs of people smiling out from their frames. They seemed to tease him, saying that they knew how much he wished he could have what they had.

"I've been thinking about where we should have this lesson," Alana whispered. "Everyone is asleep now, so we can't have it here in the house. But there's the church…the key's by the door, and my uncle wouldn't mind if we went over there for a little while."

Not the church. Anything but that. "Is there anywhere else we could go?"

She shook her head. "No, unless you want to sit in the tiny stable out back where they keep their horse."

He would choose the stable any day.

"But," Alana continued, "the sound quality would be wonderful inside the church. And they have a grand piano and organ inside as well."

That was tempting. Very tempting indeed. It had been many months since he'd played; his fingers itched to move across the black and white keys and play the music he loved. That was one of the two things he'd missed most since he'd left the Opera House, playing the great organ he'd constructed all on his own. The other was Christine, naturally. Tonight if he could just play some of their songs on the instruments Alana spoke of, maybe he would miss her less.

Miss her less? He didn't want to stop missing her. It proved he loved her, it proved he was alive.

Alana had the key to the church in her hands now, and was opening the front door. "Let's go," she said, turning to look at him, a smile on her face. Even her bright eyes seemed to smile. Erik couldn't meet her gaze and looked at the floor as he found himself walking through the door out into the rainy street.

Alana ran across the road to the church and unlocked the door, hurrying inside to get out of the rain. Erik followed her, but as he came face to face with the open door, paralysis seized his every limb. Everything had gone all cold, and images danced in his mind, memories of being mocked, feared, and condemned. He was the Devil's Child, and he had no right to enter a holy place.

"_God would strike a little demon like you dead the moment you walked through the doors!"_

The memory of the gypsies' words stung like the lash of a whip. Erik closed his eyes, trying to fight off the pain.

"Erik?" Alana's soft voice broke through his agonizing reveries. "Aren't you going to come inside?"

He forced himself to look up at her, but he couldn't find the words to speak. He was gripped with an insane panic, inexplicably frozen by a fear he didn't understand. _I am unworthy._

Alana gazed back at him, confused. "What did you say?"

Had he said that out loud? What a pathetic fool he was. Not only did he not deserve to walk through the doors; he didn't even deserve to live. Then he saw her face darken, her eyes grow wide. "Erik, come inside. Hurry," she whispered.

He turned and looked through the rain. There were two mounted soldiers coming down the street, headed straight towards the church. They hadn't seen him yet, but they would in…

"You there! Stop!" The sound of hoof beats, rushing toward him.

Then he felt his arm being seized, and yanked back _hard._ Before he knew it, he was lying on a cool stone floor, and Alana was slamming the great door shut and locking it. He was inside the church. Panic overcame him, and he braced himself.

But nothing happened. There was no change at all in the room, Alana still stood there before him, looking alarmed and confused, and he was still alive.

"Erik? Are you all right?" she asked, kneeling down beside him. "I'm sorry I jerked your arm like that, but you were…frozen. Is something wrong?"

He blinked and looked around him. It was dark, but he could tell that he was in a beautiful place. He hadn't been struck down, though. The gypsies had been wrong; they'd been wrong about everything. He wasn't the Devil's Child, he was just a man who'd been born into a life of terrible fortune. He was Erik.

There was a loud knocking at the door. "Open this door! Open it now!" a voice shouted.

"All right," Alana was breathing hard, obviously afraid, but she was trying to get a hold of herself. "We haven't done anything wrong. We live across the street, and we just went into my uncle's church for a minute to get something. They won't arrest us for that…I'll just let them in and explain…" She moved closer to the door.

"No." Erik leapt to his feet and took her wrist. "They won't let us off."

"What do you mean? We didn't really do anyth-"

"Trust me."

He heard a rattling noise. The soldiers were trying to pick the lock. Then there was a click, and the door was kicked open.

"Surrender yourself!"

But by the time the soldiers could catch a glimpse of Erik, he was already disappearing into the dark halls of the church, pulling Alana along with him.

The girl's feet dragged on the floor and she stumbled, unable to keep up, so he lifted her in his arms and carried her off with him as he raced through the unfamiliar corridors. They turned a corner and he stopped for a moment. All was quiet but the sound of Alana's racing heart next to his own, so close. Her arms were wrapped tightly around his neck, her soft warm fingers pressed against his skin…

Erik made himself clear his head, and listened for the soldiers. Sure enough, they were drawing near, and would be upon them in moments. He looked down at Alana's little, scared face, and put his finger over her lips. "Over here." He threw his voice so his words seemed to come from down the hall. "Hurry. They won't find us here." Then he fell silent again and listened for footsteps heading in the wrong direction. He heard them, as he'd known he would. He set Alana down, and led her in the direction they had come from, moving toward the entrance to the church so they could make their escape.

They turned the corner that would lead them to the entrance hall, and both their hearts stopped. One of the soldiers was standing there, guarding the door; the two hadn't been together as Erik had thought. The soldier saw him, and his eyes grew wide, recognition passing across his face.

"Surrender now," he said. His tone was angry, but his voice shook.

Erik just bolted from the room with Alana racing after him. They heard the soldier shouting to his comrade, and then the sound of one of them beginning another pursuit.

"Is there a back door?" Erik asked as they ran.

"Maybe…I haven't been here in so long, and it's dark…"

One of the soldiers was guarding the main entrance, so they had to find another way to escape. Normally Erik could have slipped effortlessly out of their fingers, but with Alana a quick escape was proving difficult. He threw his voice to distract the soldier every chance he got, and it worked, but their pursuer always seemed to manage to get back on track, and there was always that one soldier blocking the known way out. In the dark, the church was like a maze, and they were stuck in the middle of an intense game of cat and mouse.

Erik threw open a door that led to a tall, winding spiral staircase.

"This…must be…the bell tower." Alana was gasping for breath.

"Come on," Erik took her by the wrist and pulled her along as they ran up the stairs. When they finally reached the top, they were devastated to discover that there was nowhere to hide. _This was a mistake. _Erik cursed himself for being so stupid. He turned, and heard the sound of the soldier-no, both of the soldiers, running up the stairs after them.

"What are we going to do?" Alana looked terrified.

Erik searched the room for something, any place they could hide, but there was nothing but the church bells and rope. He eyed the large open window at the far side of the bell tower. It was their only way out. He pulled Alana toward it, but she hesitated.

"We can't go out there…"

They had no choice. He looked out the window and saw that the roof was directly below. The rain was pouring down now, water rushing down the roof in torrents. He climbed through the window and turned back, motioning for Alana to follow him. She shook her head, but when she looked behind her, Erik could tell from her expression that the soldiers were almost to the top of the stairs.

"Come on!" he shouted over the rain and the wind. "It'll be all right!"

Alana's face changed from panic to desperate determination, and she too climbed through the window and set her feet down onto the roof. She tried to make her way to where Erik stood, but she slipped on the wet surface. Erik leaned forward and reached out his arms, caught her before she fell, and pulled her to the side of the roof opposite the large open window. He knelt down and opened his cloak so that Alana could huddle under it and be protected from the heavy rain, and she sat close to him, pulling his cloak tightly around her.

"Now what?" she said.

"We wait," Erik replied. "They can't see us from where they are, or on the street. We're safe for the moment."

She nodded and closed her eyes, shivering from the rain and the rush of adrenaline, and they waited. As they knelt there in the pouring rain and gusting wind, covered by the warmth of his black cloak, Erik couldn't stop raging at himself. It was his fault the soldiers had seen them, his fault they were sitting out here in the storm now hiding from them, his fault the soldiers had a reason to pursue them so fiercely. He'd gotten Alana caught up in his mess of a life tonight. She didn't understand why the soldiers were so determined to catch the two of them, and he desperately needed it to stay that way. She couldn't know he was one of Paris' most wanted men.

Finally, Erik decided to take his chances and see if the soldiers had gone. They couldn't stay on the roof all night. "Stay here," he said to Alana, slipping out of his cloak so she could keep it. The rain immediately soaked through his clothes, and he quickly made his way to the other side of the bell tower, and climbed back through the open window.

He entered the room, a puddle forming on the floor as he stopped to survey his surroundings. He was alone, the soldiers gone. Perhaps they had given up. Perhaps not. Erik spied a pile of spare rope on the floor in the corner, and took up a long coil, twisting it into the familiar shape of a Punjab lasso, always his weapon of choice. Clutching the lasso in front of him, he cautiously moved toward the door. He turned the knob, and it swung open with a slow creak, revealing the empty staircase. He inched forward, suspicious, listening. By the time he caught the sound of others breathing, it was too late.

The two soldiers jumped out at him from where they'd hid on either side of the doorway, pointing their rifles directly at him.

"Last chance to surrender, _Opera Ghost_," one of them snarled. "You should have stayed underground."

"Lucky for us you didn't," the other side, jabbing his rifle barrel into Erik's chest. "With that reward money, my friend here and I will be set for life."

Erik wasn't worried. With his mouth closed this time, he threw his voice again, creating the sound of another man's shout, coming from down below the stairs. "Officers! Down here!"

Both the soldiers turned to look for just a moment, but a moment was all Erik needed. He struck the two men on the back of the head with quick, tremendous blows from his powerful fists, sending them toppling down a few steps, dropping their rifles. Erik seized hold of the guns and flung them over the railing, and they hit the stone floor below and broke. He looked over the soldiers; one was lying on the steps unconscious, blood trickling from a wound on his head. The other was staggering to his feet, muttering curses and fumbling around in his jacket. The soldier pulled out a knife and brandished it. "You'll pay for this." He spat at Erik's feet. "For this and all the other things you've done. It's over. You and that little whore of yours, you'll both hang."

Something inside of Erik snapped. Rage swelled up inside him, and the room grew hot and red all around. "You're mistaken," he said, his tone dripping with venom as his eyes, burning with hatred, met the soldier's equally cruel gaze. "The only one who will hang tonight…" He lunged at the other man, twisted his arm, and knocked the knife out of his grasp, sending it clattering to the floor. Then he was forcing the Punjab lasso around the soldier's neck. "…is you."

He yanked the noose fiercely, tighter and tighter. The man gasped for breath. Erik dragged the struggling soldier over to the staircase's iron railing, and quickly tied one end of the rope around one of the metal bars. Then he flipped the soldier over the top of the railing, and watched as he hung there in space, flailing wildly for a moment, until Erik heard the morbidly satisfying crack of the man's neck, and saw him grow still. The railing bent under the new corpse's weight, and came loose. It fell down, down to the hard stone floor below, along with the dead body and the rope that had killed him.

Erik turned when he heard heavy, ragged breathing.

"Murderer!" the injured soldier gasped. "You may think you've won, but you can't escape. Justice _will _find you…"

Overpowering fear and anger like ice crept into his heart that was already full of uncontrollable rage. His eyes, seeing red, blazed with a fiery hate against the men who would have locked him up again, beaten him, killed him, and destroyed Alana as well. He'd sworn he would protect her from harm, and sworn that he himself would never be locked up again. This man had dared to stand in the way of his oath.

Erik kicked him over the edge and watched him fall to his death.

He made his way down the staircase and stared at the two corpses. By now his anger had subsided, and as he looked at the pathetic remains of what had been the soldiers, his stomach turned inside of him, and everything went cold. Woodenly, he bent down and began to pull both of the corpses away from that place. He found a back door-_Why wasn't I able to find this before?-_and dragged the bodies out into the back street, placing them in an alley behind a pile of rubbish and debris. _What an indecent end for them, _Erik thought to himself. After all, they had only been doing their duty. If they'd caught him and he'd been hanged, he would have been getting what he deserved. What had set him off more than anything though was the moment when the one soldier had called Alana a whore and said that she would hang with him. She didn't deserve to die just for being with him. She didn't understand, didn't know who he really was. And now that these soldiers were out of the way, maybe she never would.

Erik returned to the church, feeling sick with guilt as he entered. He'd just killed two men inside a _church. _What kind of person did something like that?

A monster.

He fought back the urge to vomit, and went back to the place where he'd killed the soldiers. It was self-defense, he told himself over and over. He'd been defending

himself, and more importantly, Alana. She was innocent. They would have sent her to prison or worse if not for him and what he'd done. He'd just been protecting her. There was nothing wrong with that, was there? Still, as he walked back up the stairs to the bell tower, he felt ill.

He climbed out the open window again and found Alana, practically drowning underneath his black cloak as the rain poured down on her.

"Oh, thank goodness you're back," she breathed when he came up next to her and took her by the hand, leading her carefully back toward and through the window.

"We're safe now," he said, as she took the dripping cloak off and handed it to him. He was soaked to the bone, and she was mostly warm and dry, but that was all right with Erik. Something about it made him feel almost…happy, in spite of what had just happened.

They walked down the stairs, and Alana gasped when she saw the missing railing. "What happened?"

Meanwhile, Erik had been tried to figure out what he would tell Alana when she asked him that very question, and the answer had come easily.

"I came out of the bell tower room and the soldiers were outside, waiting for us. There was…a struggle, and that's how the railing broke."

Alana raised her eyebrows in alarm. "That must have been quite a struggle."

Erik nodded slowly. "It was. But eventually I was able to _persuade _them to let us off."

"Really? How? They seemed so serious about this."

"Let's just say I used a little…monetary persuasion."

Alana laughed. "Thank goodness for that. Normally I don't believe in bribing people, but we didn't even do anything wrong."

"Right," Erik said, his stomach twisting inside of him. He wiped the raindrops off his forehead. "Now then. Where is the place for us to have our lesson?"

Alana looked surprised. "After all this, you still want to have the lesson? You're all wet, and…"

Erik needed music right now more than ever. It was the only thing that could take his mind off of what had just happened, or rather, what he had just done. He knew the guilt would return, as it had before with the others he had killed, but while he was absorbed in his music he could forget at least for a little while. They would have the lesson. "Of course," Erik interrupted. "The music will seem even better after such an ordeal."

"Very well." Alana smiled, her eyes sparkling in the dim light. "The sanctuary is this way."

_Sanctuary. _Churches were supposed to be safe places, full of peace and goodness. And yet he'd killed two people here. He couldn't get their faces out of his head, couldn't escape from the sounds that sickened him now, the sounds of their necks breaking. He followed Alana through the church, struggling to maintain his composure.

They reached the sanctuary, and Erik took a look around the room. There were rows and rows of wooden pews leading up to the pulpit, where Alana's uncle preached his sermons. There was the organ and the piano, and in the back of the room was a balcony with more pews for people to sit and listen to the preaching. On every wall there were banners and paintings of what must have been sayings and scenes of the Bible, one of the few famous books that Erik had never read. He turned around and his gaze fell upon a giant red banner at the back of the sanctuary that had several sayings on it embroidered in gold letters. He looked closer, and saw that it seemed to be some sort of list of rules, ten in fact, and one of them seemed to leap off the wall at him.

_Thou shalt not kill._

Dread overcame him. He stood and stared at those four words, feeling completely and utterly sickened by himself and what he had done, feeling like all the wrath of the Lord these people served was rising against him. He'd always believed there was a God, but he had no love for a deity that would allow him to be born into such a wretched life, filled with constant misery. Such a being could not possibly care about him, so why should he worship a god like that? Still, he couldn't shake off the horrendous guilt that burned at his insides like fire. He wanted to make it all go away, but he didn't know how.

"Erik? Are you all right?" Alana, who had been lighting the gas lamps and candles scattered across the sanctuary, turned to face him, looking concerned. Again.

Images and memories of the people he'd killed over the years kept running through his mind. He could see their terrified faces, hear the sound of their necks cracking as they met their deaths, part of a death toll that was continuing to rise. His gypsy master. Buquet. Piangi. The two soldiers. Five men at least, possibly more; he wasn't sure how many people had perished in the Opera House fire he'd caused. He choked down the bile rising up in his throat.

"I…I'm fine," he managed to say.

Alana didn't appear convinced. "You look like you don't feel very well at all. Are you absolutely sure you still want to have this lesson?"

Erik nodded.

"Well, in that case," she said, "I know something that just might help you feel better."

She took his hand. He flinched at the shock of her soft warm hand against his cool one, but for some reason, he didn't let go. There was something about Alana, tonight more so than ever…something on the inside, so contagious, so intoxicating…

They stood before the grand piano. "Do you know how to play?" Alana was asking him.

"Yes."

"Why don't you play something?"

Erik just stared at the piano, at Alana, at the room they were in. At that banner with the list of rules that he had broken. He didn't deserve to be in this room, or to put his fingers on the keys of an instrument in such a holy place. He didn't deserve to be in the presence of the girl who stood beside him, still holding his hand, a hand with the blood of many men upon it. He was such a monster, and she was so…

"Well if you won't, I will." Alana let go of his hand, which grew cold again the moment her fingers left his, and she sat down on the bench and began to play a melody on the piano.

Or rather, she tried to play. She was searching for the correct notes, but she couldn't seem to find them. She played slowly, hesitantly, constantly playing the wrong notes. It sounded absolutely dreadful.

"No, no, no," Erik said, unable to take it anymore. "Not like that." This girl was in desperate need of some musical help. He bent down beside her and dared to touch one of the shining white keys of the church piano. Nothing happened-there was no burn or flash of lighting or onslaught of divine wrath. He breathed a slight sigh of relief, and played out the melody Alana had been searching for, the very beginning of Canon in D by Pachelbel, a song he had always liked. "Now it's your turn," he said.

Hesitantly, gently, he rested his hands on hers and began to move them across the keys, helping her to play the correct notes of the piece. They played it through like this twice, and then Erik let go of her hands and stood back. "Now you try it on your own."

Alana played each note perfectly.

"Excellent," he said, feeling the corners of his mouth turn upward…_was he actually smiling? _"That was perfect."

"Thank you," Alana said. Her cheeks had gone pink, something that always happened when he praised her if she did well in one of her lessons. "Do you think…maybe could you play the rest of the song?"

"Yes." Alana got up off the bench and stood beside the piano as Erik sat down and made himself comfortable. Then, with his hands on the keys and his foot on the pedal below, he began to play.

His mind seemed to leave him as his fingers floated effortlessly across the piano. He closed his eyes and let the canon take him away to a place that was both wonderful and familiar, and yet he felt he had never been there before. There was beautiful music, and there was peace, both in the melody and in the presence beside him. Though Erik couldn't see, he could feel, and he knew that Alana was with him, lost in the music. When he had finally played the last note, he opened his eyes, and found that they were full of tears.

But he wasn't sad. He didn't understand.

"That was incredible," Alana said, wiping a tear from her eye as well and sitting down beside him. "I'd give anything to be able to play like that."

"You did play the part I showed you very well. Have you played before?" Erik asked.

"Yes," Alana replied. "A little…when I was younger. We had a piano at home, but…in time, it grew painfully out of tune, and there was no one to repair it. But I couldn't have borne to play it even if it had been in tune…my…mother played, and it always made me sad to think of how she would never play our piano again, never be able to teach me to play like she did." Erik could see that Alana was holding back tears, tears of sadness this time.

Her pain was something he could understand. He put a hand on her shoulder. He noticed that she flinched at his touch, as he always did with hers, but she immediately relaxed, and closed her eyes for a second. When she opened them they seemed a little brighter, and she looked up at him. Her expression was unreadable.

"If you wish," he said, "I can teach you."

"Really?"

"Of course."

"Oh, that would be wonderful." She smiled, and Erik felt the upper corner of his own mouth sort of twitch, and turn up. "But what about singing lessons?"

"We can do both," Erik said. "It will take more time, if that is all right with you."

Still grinning up at him, Alana nodded.

"Very well. Shall we begin then?"

After breathing exercises, Erik had her sing scales, and he taught her to play those same scales on the piano. Once they had finished that, he played a bit of a song, and sang her the words. At the time, the fact that he was playing and singing "Music of the Night" did not warrant a second thought in Erik's mind. It seemed the perfect song in the moment. He taught her to sing and play the first verse, and in time she could do both perfectly.

"That's a lovely song," Alana said as they left the sanctuary when their lesson was over. "There's just one thing about it, though."

"And what is that?" Erik said, a little indignant at the possibility of one of his songs receiving criticism.

"It's that one bit about light…I don't think it's very garish, or cold or unfeeling at all. Do you really believe that?"

Erik looked at her. Though it was dark now, her very presence seemed to make the room brighter, and there was nothing garish, cold, or unfeeling about her. "Do you know what?" he said, scarcely believing what he was saying. "I think you may be right."

She smiled that smile again.

"I will write down some music for you to begin practicing tomorrow if you wish," Erik said.

"Tomorrow…tomorrow is Sunday. Or rather, _today _is Sunday, since it must be long past midnight. My uncle is preaching here in the morning. Would you…" She hesitated a little. "Would you like to come?"

The sick feeling came back to his stomach again. He thought of that banner.

_Thou shalt not kill._

He was a murderer, with fresh blood on his hands.

"I think not."

"You think not? Are you sure?"

"Yes, I am sure." Erik was feeling a bit irritated now.

"Why?"

"Does everything I do need to have an explanation?"

Alana's face fell, and she seemed to shrink, to withdraw into herself. "I'm sorry."

"I will see you tomorrow night at the same time, and no sooner."

After checking for soldiers and finding the lane empty, they crossed the street and stood on the steps by the door to the house. "Very well then," Alana said. "But if you should change your mind…"

"Then what?"

She smiled again, a very slight smile. "Then that would make me happy."

Erik just stared at her, helplessly, as a strange feeling washed over him. He'd never felt _exactly_ like this before; he didn't know what to call it or what to think. He…liked it when she was happy. To see her happy made him feel…happy too. But as she said good night and disappeared inside the house, leaving him standing alone on the doorstep, he felt her disappointment in him. And the sting of her disappointment was greater than the pain of any beating the Devil's Child had ever had.

Before he left to return to the Giry's apartment, Erik turned to look at the church across the road once more. It didn't look quite as foreboding as it had earlier, but he knew he was making the right choice by not going there with Alana the next morning. He couldn't bear to be around so many strangers, people who would look down on him because of the mask he wore. _And they won't be the only ones looking down on me. The Lord must hate me for what I am, what I have done._

But that night, he had experienced something special. For just a little while, when he had been playing the piano in that holy place, with that…beautiful, yes, she was a beautiful girl, there beside him, he had caught a glimpse of what heaven was like. There in that candlelit sanctuary, he had found _sanctuary, _in a place of warmth, light, peace, beauty and music. The scene replayed itself over and over in his mind.

That night, a demon had visited heaven.

But he could never stay there. He didn't belong.

That was no place for a freak, a monster, with hands stained by the blood of men.

It was a long walk back, alone in the dark. As he burned in hell, he glanced up at the sky and yearned for heaven with all of his soul.

**Thanks for reading! Reviews would be greatly appreciated, especially by those of you who have favorited or put this story on alert but haven't reviewed yet! Everyone's feedback is really important to me, so please tell me what you think! :)**


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter Eighteen

_Alana ran through a dark maze alone. Someone chased after her. She couldn't see her pursuer, but she could hear their footsteps echoing in the blackness. She kept running forward, but her legs felt wooden, and she couldn't run fast enough. Then she realized with horror that she was headed straight for a dead end, a blank stone wall. She backed against the wall and covered her eyes, afraid to see her pursuer's face…_

"Alana? Alana? You really need to wake up! We can't be late for church!"

She opened her eyes. The nightmare was gone in an instant, and there was her cousin standing next to the bed. Was it really morning already? She yawned and turned back over, closing her eyes again.

"Please wake up, Alana," Cerise was saying, though her voice was muffled by the layers of sheets Alana was hiding under. "Say…do you still remember when we were little and your family would stay over, and we would wake up at the crack of dawn, and have pillow fights? We'd get feathers all over the floor, and we would wake up our parents, and then they'd be cross and we'd have to clean up, but it was worth every bit of it, wasn't it?"

Alana blinked. She _did_ remember that; playing with Cerise had always been her favorite part about staying with her relatives. She threw off the covers, jumped out of bed, and grabbed her pillow, tossing the other to her surprised cousin.

"En garde!" She laughed, and soon feathers were flying as they raced around the room, barraging each other with the pillows. All of a sudden Raimond and Amélie ran into the bedroom.

"What on earth?" Raimond exclaimed, laughing.

"Girls! What are you doing?"

Alana and Cerise dropped the pillows and tried to stop giggling.

"I'm sorry," Cerise said, unable to erase the grin from her face. "This is my fault for mentioning…"

"…All those pillow fights you had as girls. It's nice to see you've both matured so much since then," Amélie chuckled. "Now you both need to get dressed and ready to go to church. Alana, you should be able to borrow one of Cerise's dresses. Hurry along now, you two! All these feathers will be waiting for you to clean up when you get home."

It was painfully early, before six even, and Alana had only slept for a few hours, but after the pillow fight and the good hard laugh she felt ready to begin the day. After taking a bath and putting on one of Cerise's dresses-a crisp white one with blue flowers on it-and arranging her hair, Alana joined her relatives downstairs for breakfast. She barely had time to finish a cup of tea and a croissant with jam before they had to rush across the street to the church.

"We have to be there first, naturally," Cerise explained. "Father has to prepare for his sermon, and mother and I are in the choir. We have to practice once more before the service-you can come and watch if you like. Maybe you'd like to join the choir too, sometime."

"I'll think about it," Alana said. She would ask Erik about it later; he would probably be thrilled with the idea, and maybe then he would come to church too. She wondered why he wouldn't come today; he hadn't given her a real answer, as he often didn't. Why was he so secretive all the time?

Alana followed her aunt and cousin to the choir room. Now the church looked bright and welcoming, not like last night, when its halls had seemed a dark, forbidding labyrinth. Soon the choir arrived, and she watched as the men and women warmed up and went through some of the hymns they were preparing to sing. Their voices sounded pleasant enough, but though she had only been taking lessons a short while, she noticed a few issues with some of the singers, problems she'd had that Erik had quickly corrected. He could certainly instruct the choir on how to be the best singers they could possibly be. Maybe…no, leading a church choir was not something Alana could picture Erik doing.

When they had finished one of the hymns, Cerise stopped and turned to Alana. "We're almost ready here, so you'd better go to the sanctuary and sit down. We always sit in the front row…see you there!"

Alana headed out into the church's narthex. By now it was packed with people. Times were tough in Paris, but the church seemed much more full than she ever remembered it. _People must be desperate, _she thought, _clinging on to any hope they can have. _They needed something to believe in.

She caught glimpses of people from every walk of life: poor, middle-class, wealthy, and what must have been members of the aristocracy, for some of the people were dressed in unbelievably fine clothes. Her uncle had quite a flock to care for, but from what she saw they were anything but a unified body. Everyone was split into cliques obviously based on social standing, and the gap between rich and poor was painfully evident. It made her feel a little uncomfortable.

She made her way into the sanctuary, found an empty pew in the front row, and sat down, leafing through the hymnal that had been under her seat. She was looking over "Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring" when she heard someone clear their throat.

"Ahem."

Alana looked up. Standing there before her was the most extravagantly dressed woman she had ever seen, outside of paintings of royalty. The woman, who appeared to be a few years older than Alana, was wearing a beautiful lavender dress, with matching gloves, parasol, hat, and even shoes peeking out from under the folds of her lavish dress. She tossed her dark brown ringlets, green eyes flashing with irritation.

"This is our pew." Her tone was sharp, in an unsettling contrast to her pleasant appearance.

Alana made herself stop staring. "Oh, I'm sorry. My cousin said to sit in the front row, so I…"

"Then you must be a Valjean or a Ducard," the woman interrupted, speaking with obvious distaste. She pointed across the aisle to the right. "_That's_ your pew. _This_ one is for family and friends of the Marquis de Bellamy."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," Alana said, not knowing what to do but apologize again. "Thank you, I'll get out of your way now."

The woman gave her an odd-looking sort of smile, and Alana moved to the other side of the room. She wasn't used to being around that sort of person, and she knew she didn't like it at all. The woman obviously disliked her, and Alana returned the feeling, but at the same time, she felt intimidated, and for some reason she wanted that woman to accept her, to like her. She sat by herself in the other pew, contenting herself with reading one of its hymnals until the rest of the sanctuary filled up. A family of six sat on the other side of the long pew-they must have been the Ducards. Alana turned to look over at the pew she'd been expelled from. It was now full of young men and women, all as fabulously dressed as the woman in lavender. They were talking and laughing together. It didn't seem like they thought they were at church at all; they were acting like they were at a social gathering. They rather irritated her.

Then, Alana saw him. Making his way down the aisle to that pew for the Marquis' family and friends. It was Damien.

Her heart skipped a beat-she hadn't expected to see him here; in fact, after everything that had happened yesterday and last night she had almost forgotten about him. How could she forget _him_?

There he was, looking even more sophisticated than he had the last time she'd

seen him. He carried a neatly carved walking cane and was dressed in a fine dark violet waistcoat and gray trousers, and fastidiously polished black boots. He also wore a top hat, tilted slightly on his head. He didn't notice her as his friends across the aisle from Alana called out his name and he joined them to receive multiple "Good morning,"s and "Aren't you looking well?"s, and "For heaven's sake, take off that hat of yours!"s.

Alana tried not to stare as Damien chatted merrily with his friends. She was shocked…she'd had no idea Damien was so…_higher-class_ than she was. Was _he _the Marquis de Bellamy? He certainly seemed very popular with the others.

By now the choir had arrived, and had begun to sing as the last of the churchgoers poured in. Cerise and Amélie smiled out at Alana, and she smiled back. As she listened, she found herself unable to keep from glancing to her left. Damien was seated on the end, nearest her, sitting next to the woman in lavender. Alana's eyes darted in his direction several times, and finally, he turned his head and glanced casually across the room. Then he did a sort of double take. His eyes brightened with eager recognition, and he gave a slight wave, flashing a brilliant grin.

She waved back, brimming with happiness and excitement. She tried to pay attention to the hymn, but she kept making glances across the aisle, noticing as the lady in lavender and another of Damien's friends began whispering to him and looking at her in confusion and thinly veiled disapproval. Damien didn't seem to be fazed by them, and smiled at her every time their eyes met.

They exchanged looks throughout the following hymns everyone sang as a congregation, and as the offering plate was passed around later, Alana felt a sinking feeling in her stomach when she had to pass the plate along to the Ducards, with nothing to put in it. She looked over to the left and saw Damien and his friends putting heaping piles of coins and bills into the gold plate, hoping they hadn't seen that she didn't have any money to give. Then Cerise and Amélie and the rest of the choir went out to join their families on the pews, and Uncle Raimond came from a side door and stood behind the pulpit, ready to begin his sermon.

Despite her lack of sleep, and the constant distraction that was Damien, Alana soon began to listen intently to her uncle's words.

"We are living in a difficult time," he was saying, "and it can be a hard thing, sometimes even a dangerous thing, to put trust in our fellow man."

The crowd murmured in agreement, and Alana remembered the warning the old man from that bookshop had given her about choosing who she should trust.

"But this is not necessarily a bad thing, because it makes it absolutely vital for each and every one of us to put our full trust in God, and not in the people around us."

Alana thought back to when she'd first met Erik, in his little house outside Détente, when he'd told her not to leave and seek out her father again. She remembered saying she couldn't stay with him. She'd told Erik that she didn't trust him, and she'd seen his face fall. But he'd saved her life more than once now, and she was grateful to him. He'd never betrayed her, never given her any real reason to doubt him. Now she could say that she trusted him. But was that wrong?

She listened as her uncle read from the Bible. "The Lord tells us, it is better to trust in Him than to trust in princes, mortal men. The fortieth psalm says that the one who makes the Lord his trust will be greatly blessed." Raimond cautioned the congregation about trusting men with their lives, giving anecdotes of recent betrayals that had taken place in their own neighborhood, of innocent people being falsely accused and suddenly taken to Versailles and never seen again. _Is it really so bad to trust another person with my life_? Alana wondered. _After all, Erik saved mine. And he'd never do anything to hurt me._

Uncle Raimond was reading from the letter to the Philippians now, chapter four verses six and seven. "Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus."

The verse gave Alana great comfort. She sat back and breathed a sigh of relief, feeling that God was watching over her and wouldn't send someone into her life that would hurt her. It was all right to trust Erik, just as long as she didn't let him replace God or the other people in her life…she would never let that happen, anyway, she was sure of it.

The sermon ended, and Raimond left the sanctuary to go and stand by the front door and shake hands with everyone as they headed out. People had broken up into their cliques again and begun talking, some about the sermon, and some about other things.

Alana felt someone come up next to her.

"Good morning, mademoiselle."

She looked up, and there was Damien, the picture of cheerfulness.

"Good morning, monsieur," she replied, unsure of how to address him. Could he really be the Marquis de Bellamy? Could she really have met and taken a walk with a Marquis?

"Please, call me Damien. All my friends do."

So he thought of _her _as a friend, someone as rich as he! "Very well, Damien." She laughed a little, not sure why. "You may call me Alana, then."

"I will! So, Alana, how long have you been here in Paris?"

"I arrived just yesterday."

"Excellent!" Damien's eyes brightened even more, if that were possible. "So you haven't made any plans yet, have you?"

"Well, no, not really…" Alana trailed off, glimpsing out of the corner of her eye her cousin looking her way. Cerise's mouth fell open as she looked from Alana to Damien.

"That's just perfect then! How would you like to come to le déjeuner with me this afternoon?"

Le déjeuner…that was now! "Oh, I'm not sure…"

"It's rather short notice, I know, so I can understand if you don't want to come," Damien said apologetically. "I would invite you to dinner but there's that blasted curfew now, which makes it utterly impossible to host a good dinner party. That's why I've resorted to inviting everyone over for midday meals…just me and a few of my closest friends. And you too, now." He tilted his head and looked expectantly at her. "So, would you like to come? We always have a splendid time."

Alana thought for a moment. "That would be…lovely," she said. "I'll just ask my aunt if it's all right."

"Wonderful! I'll be waiting outside." Damien put on his top hat so it had that sideways tilt again, which was really quite charming, Alana thought, and he left the sanctuary.

"Oh my goodness!" Cerise rushed over and grabbed Alana's hands in both of hers, nearly jumping up and down with excitement. "Do you realize how lucky you are?"

"I, er…"

Her cousin's voice dropped to a whisper. "The man you were just talking to…that was the Comte de Bellamy!"

"Oh, yes, I suppose so…" Alana whispered back. "I met him in Rouen on the way here, but I wasn't aware he was a Comte! Or that he went to this church, for that matter."

"Wait a minute! You've already spent time with him?" Cerise looked positively giddy.

"Yes, we met in a restaurant at the inn we were both staying at, and we went for a walk around the city that evening."

"Oh. How romantic," Cerise sighed. "Some people have all the luck. You have no idea of how much I envy you." Alana wasn't quite sure how to reply, but Cerise kept talking. "So, are you going to le déjeuner with him? Yes, I _was_ eavesdropping. I couldn't help it, it's just that I've seen him come here for years now but I've never once spoken to him. He seems to be a wonderful man, doesn't he?" Cerise gazed distantly off in the direction Damien had gone.

"Yes, he does. Now I must ask your mother if she'll permit me to go."

"Of course she will! Comte Damien is very respected everywhere he goes."

And sure enough, Amélie, though she was certainly very surprised that Alana had been invited to dine with a comte on only her second day in Paris, allowed her to go, on the condition that she help Cerise clean up the feathers from that morning when she returned. "Just be sure to be home before the curfew," her aunt warned. "Soldiers patrol the streets and take in anyone who stays out too late." If only she knew how aware of that Alana already was.

It wasn't hard to find Damien. He was standing under one of the lilac trees that lined the sidewalk on either side of the street, and he was surrounded by his friends. Alana stopped, and watched them, waiting for the right moment to join their circle, but she just stood there awkwardly, afraid to bother them. They seemed to be such a tightly-knit group of friends, set in their ways. She felt like she would be a nuisance if she went to join them…

But then Damien looked over and caught her eye. He grinned from ear to ear and clapped his hands together. "Attention, all!" While he waited for the others to stop talking he motioned for Alana to come forward, and she nervously went to stand beside him. "This is Mademoiselle Alana Valjean, and she will be joining us this afternoon."

The others smiled and the men bowed and the women curtsied, but Alana could see them looking her up and down in a mixture of amusement and disgust. She looked down at the dress she wore, pretty but simple, and wished that she had worn one of the gowns Erik had given her.

"I had the pleasure of meeting Mademoiselle Alana a few days ago while I was in Rouen, and since she will be staying here in Paris for a while, I thought she could join us and we could all become good friends." He turned to face her, his hazel eyes shining. "We can show you the city, take you to parties, introduce you to all the best people. So what do you say? Would you like that?"

"Oh yes, I'd like that very much."

"Good! Now let's all get to our carriages and head over to my house." Damien's friends went their separate ways, leaving Alana standing alone with him. "Do you have a ride?" he asked her, and she shook her head. "That's quite all right. Come, you can ride with me." He offered her his arm, and she took it as he led her to his carriage.

The vehicle was absolutely glorious. The wooden exterior was painted a deep ebony, covered with elaborate carvings, and the carriage was drawn by two tall white stallions. The interior was just as stunning, with soft red velvet seat cushions and more carvings in the wood.

"Admiring the craftsmanship?" Damien asked, and when she nodded, he said, "My father had this carriage custom built a few years ago. See, there he is, carved just below your window. And there's my mother and me." Alana gazed at the carvings; they were tiny, but intricately detailed. Then her eye caught something odd, a flaw in the woodwork. There was a strange, large empty space next to Damien, like something belonged there but had been left out. Or maybe even cut out, erased.

She didn't have time to ask about it, because the Comte immediately began chatting away, asking her questions about staying with her relatives, and church, and his friends. Along the way, Alana watched through the spotless glass windows as they passed finer and finer houses. Soon they stopped and Damien helped her out of the carriage, leading her around it. When she saw his house, she felt her jaw drop.

It was the largest house she had ever seen in a city. They had to pass through the tall iron front gate and a beautiful flower garden surrounded by hedges, meticulously trimmed. The house was gigantic, at least three or four stories high. Towering columns held up the roof and stood on either side of a great front door, painted in crimson. There were more windows on the front side than in her relatives' entire house, and there was a balcony above the front door. The sheer splendor made Alana feel so small, so poor.

"What a beautiful house you have," she said softly, scarcely able to breathe. She couldn't believe she'd really been invited to a place like this.

"Thank you." Damien bent down to get a closer look at some of the blooms in his garden. He picked one, a brilliant blue flower, and handed it to Alana.

She thanked him. "What is it?"

"It's a bluebell…my favorite flower. And it looks like the ones on your dress." Alana felt Damien's eyes on her, and she felt nervous, her heart beating rapidly. "Very pretty."

"Oh." She didn't know whether he meant the flower, the dress, or _her,_ and she hoped she wasn't blushing too badly, though she could feel her cheeks growing hot. "Thank you."

Damien smiled at her, and then his gaze shifted to somewhere behind Alana. "Ah. My friends are arriving."

Soon Alana was following Damien and no fewer than twelve of his closest friends through the grand front doors into a spectacular foyer that branched off into many different rooms, and at the far side of the room there was a double staircase leading into many more halls. Their footsteps echoed on the spotless marble floor as they made their way into a drawing room, where they waited for their meal to be prepared.

Damien was quickly surrounded by his friends, who were either gossiping enthusiastically or glancing at Alana, with an air of painful, rather insincere politeness, and obvious aloofness. It was like being with Erik, had he been a talkative, snobbish gossip. Alana tried her best to be polite back to them, but she couldn't help but feel that her manner, her dress, her personality, and her looks were utterly inferior to theirs, and they knew it. She could feel her face burning with embarrassment, and stood a little ways off by herself, holding her blue flower and looking about the room at all the fine things. Gorgeous paintings on the walls, expensive-looking mementos from far-off lands, freshly cut flowers on each and every side table…

"Mademoiselle Valjean, whatever are you staring at?" The lady in lavender had come up beside her, bemused. Damien had given Alana the names of all his friends, but she'd had trouble remembering them. This one, however, was impossible to forget. She was Seraphine, the Comtesse d'Auvergne, and she was quite possibly the most intimidating woman Alana had ever met.

"Oh." Alana looked back at her, startled. "Nothing….I was just admiring the room. It's…lovely."

Seraphine smiled, showing nearly all of her alarmingly white teeth. "It is, isn't it? _Every _room in this house is as well-decorated. The family de Bellamy has the most exquisite taste, isn't that right, Damien?"

"The exquisite-est," Damien replied with a grin, and the room was filled with laughter, none louder than Seraphine, whose laugh sounded a bit forced and rather like a hyena, Alana thought. Then a slender woman with tightly braided hair entered the drawing room, dressed like a housekeeper.

"Le déjeuner is served, my Lord," she said, curtsying. She seemed strangely nervous, tense. Alana sympathized with her.

"Oh, I almost forgot. Would you mind setting an extra place for Mademoiselle Alana Valjean, a new friend of mine?" Damien came over to stand next to Alana. "We have a full house this afternoon. Just the way I like it."

"Yes, my Lord." The nervous-looking housekeeper left for a moment, and soon returned. "The table is set."

They went toward the dining room, Alana leaving her bluebell on a side table in the parlor as directed by Damien. Then they sat down to eat. Damien was at the head of the table and Alana was at his right, with Seraphine sitting next to her, telling Damien that he really should hire a more pleasant housekeeper.

The meal was something Alana couldn't praise enough. There were bowls of a creamy, delicious soup of some kind, a fresh green salad, roast chicken and pork in a divine sauce, and cheese and wine and fruit of every kind imaginable. Alana ate as if she had never eaten before in her life, though she was conscious of Damien's friends staring at her as they nibbled daintily on little bites, more interested in talking than eating the wonderful food. Then again, they were used to it, and she wasn't.

Damien's attention was mostly divided between Alana on his right, and a red-haired man on his left, whose name Alana had forgotten. But Seraphine kept finding ways to jump into whatever conversation they were having, flashing her many white teeth in bright smiles directed at Damien. Alana suspected that she fancied him. _Oh wonderful. Now I'm thinking like one of them, _she thought.

"So Mademoiselle Alana," Seraphine said, turning to her surprisingly. "Tell me about your family. You are related to the…clergyman, correct?"

"Yes," Alana said, picking up the tiniest hint of scorn in Seraphine's tone. The other woman could tell she wasn't an aristocrat, and she probably wanted Alana to say it in front of everyone. "He's my father's half-brother."

"And what of your father and mother?"

Damien and Seraphine both looked at her with interest, and Alana could feel the eyes of the others on her as well.

She swallowed. There was a lump at the back of her throat. "My father's a businessman," she said. It _had_ been true, once.

"Oh? What field?"

Alana swallowed hard again. "Agriculture."

Seraphine couldn't hold back a small laugh. "How very interesting," she chuckled. There were a few other laughs around the table, and Alana's face reddened. This was a divine meal in a gorgeous house full of beautiful people, but it was unbearable. She just wanted to go home.

Alana thought she saw Damien glare at Seraphine, but a smile appeared on his face again so quickly that she wasn't certain. "An honorable profession, agriculture. Why, without men such as Alana's entrepreneuring father, a delicious meal like this wouldn't be possible."

"Indeed." Seraphine showed her teeth at him again. "And what about your mother, Mademoiselle Valjean? What of her connections?"

Alana felt a bit better now. Speaking of her mother was difficult, but it also gave her great pride. Una was a great, kind woman, with grace and poise and far better manners than the aristocrats here. "Actually, my mother was a Scottish lady. She met my father while visiting France and relinquished her title so that she could marry him and live here."

Seraphine nodded, and Alana could see that she was disgusted by Alana's lack of connections, but to her left she could see Damien, his eyes bright with interest.

"That's a beautiful thing," he said. "Like something you read about in books. I'm sure she was a wonderful woman."

"She was." Alana couldn't help but smile at the thought of her, and Damien smiled back. He was nothing like the rest of them, she thought. There was more to him than fashion and money and gossip. Beneath his shell of fine clothes and handsome features was a real person, a person she thought she would very much like to get to know better.

Once the meal was finished, several maids came to take their plates back to the kitchen. A petite, blonde-haired girl carefully took Alana's dishes and silverware, her movements a bit too quick and unsteady. Her hands shook a little, and the dishes clattered noisily together. Everyone in the room stared at her.

"I'm sorry," she said softly, almost in a whisper.

"It's all right," Alana said, feeling sorry for her. She appeared to be new at this. "Thank you."

The maid's brown eyes brightened a little and she smiled back. "You're welcome, mademoiselle." She took up the dishes, more steadily this time, and began to make her way to the kitchen, but not before Alana saw her and the red-haired man next to Damien exchange a long, strange look, that immediately got her wondering about the connection between the maid and this aristocrat whose name she still couldn't remember. There she was, thinking like these people again. She had to get out of here, and soon.

But the party retired to the parlor, where everyone lounged about on fine couches and chairs, still gossiping. Damien was busy talking to the red-headed man, who seemed to be his best friend, and Alana was left sitting in a chair in the corner, holding the blue flower and almost dozing off in the warm room after the heavy meal, amidst the conversations she knew nothing about. There was a piano in the room, and her thoughts drifted to Erik. What was he doing now? He'd said he would write some music for her, and give it to her tonight, and teach her to play. The night couldn't come soon enough. She had always dreamed of being rich, of living in a glorious house like this one and being surrounded by friends, but now she was beginning to think that maybe that wasn't where she belonged. This world seemed so…_wrong_ to her. She found herself missing Erik and his strange little world of music and mystery, a world it seemed he was letting her become a part of, slowly but surely.

"Do you play the piano, Mademoiselle Valjean?" Seraphine was standing next to her, inclining her head toward the grand instrument, much more expensive-looking than the one at her uncle's church. "I see you looking at it. Would you like to play for us?"

"Oh, no." Alana shook her head. "I…I don't know how yet, but I am learning to play, and sing, as well."

"Better late than never!" Damien had come to join their conversation. "I'm sure you will make a fine singer and musician. But, it is rather soon for you to be taking lessons…after all, you just arrived in Paris. You found a teacher already?"

Alana nodded.

"Who is it? If you don't mind my asking."

Alana had a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach all of a sudden. "It's the man I was with in Rouen, my friend Erik. And in case you were still wondering, Damien, he _did _fight in the war." Out of the corner of her eye she saw Seraphine raise an eyebrow, a look of smug satisfaction passing over her face. She seemed glad to hear that Alana had another male friend. But she didn't know anything about Alana and Erik, what they had been through. And anyways, the two of them were just friends, plain and simple, no matter what…

"Oh? He teaches music?" Damien looked surprised at that bit of information. "How very interesting. Perhaps he can come over one day and teach Raoul here a thing or two," he said jokingly to the red-haired man standing beside him. _Raoul. That was his name._ Alana swore she would remember it this time.

"Now, now," Raoul said, laughing. "I'm told I have an excellent voice already, thank you very much."

"Indeed? Says who?" Damien's eyes still sparkled with jest.

"Says my wife. And she knows a thing or two about music." Raoul's expression had changed from blithe merriment, his blue eyes growing a bit more serious.

"That she does," said Seraphine. "However can you both stand it, all those tours of the country, all those performances?" There was an edge of concealed disapproval in her voice. Not entirely concealed, for Alana quickly picked up on it.

"It's what she loves," Raoul said. "If she stopped singing, I think the both of us would go mad."

"She does have a wonderful voice," another woman said, the Marquess of somewhere. "It's a shame she only did those three operas."

"And two of them were utter disasters," added a young man. A comte? No, a baron. _Oh, I can't keep them all straight!_ "What a pity. I was becoming quite a fan of hers. Raoul, does she plan on doing any more?"

Raoul exchanged a quick look with Damien, grim and strange. "No. She doesn't."

"I for one think that's a good thing. Then she'll have more time to spend with you and the rest of us," said a young lady in a bright pink gown.

"Yes," Seraphine agreed. "An opera house is no place for a Vicomtesse. I would so much like to get to know your lovely wife, Raoul. I rarely ever see her."

"Yes, she prefers to keep to herself…" The red-haired man looked as uncomfortable as Alana felt. What was bothering him? She glanced at Damien, who, strangely, was not smiling. He too looked uneasy.

"Probably because of everything she had to endure, being caught up in all that chaos at the Opera Populaire, being taken by that madman…" someone was saying.

"They still haven't caught the lunatic, you know!…" another blurted out.

Alana watched as Damien, who'd appeared to be lost in thought, abruptly brightened up. "Charades, anyone?"

"Charades? Why not cards?" Seraphine nearly whined. "We always play cards."

Damien glanced briefly in Alana's direction and so did the others. She guessed the reason behind the game of charades. It was because he knew she didn't have the money to bet. She wasn't sure whether to feel grateful or humiliated.

They played charades until evening drew near, and finally, everyone began to leave. Damien accompanied her back home, and they rode through the streets that were gradually growing empty.

"Did you have a good time?" he asked her. He looked afraid of the answer.

"Yes…" Alana fingered the petals of the bluebell he'd given her. She didn't know what else to say. She didn't want to hurt Damien's feelings; after all, he hadn't been the problem. It was those friends of his.

"Are you sure? You seemed a bit…uncomfortable. I know how you must be feeling. Meeting everyone at once must have been intimidating. We've all grown up together, my friends and I. Our families are very closely aligned. But I'm sure you'll fit in with the rest of us in no time."

"Do you really think so?" Alana asked, doubtfully.

"I know so. You are just a and well-mannered and good-looking the rest of us. Even more so perhaps, if I do say so myself. You're…different. But in a good way."

"You flatter me too much, monsieur." Alana said, face reddening once again.

"How many times have we been over this, Alana?" he laughed. "Please, call me Damien."

"All right. Damien." They both grinned, and resumed a casual conversation. He asked her some more about staying with her relatives, what they were like and if she enjoyed staying there.

"What about your friend, Monsieur Erik, was it? Is he staying with your relatives also?" Damien asked with mild interest.

"No…" Alana said wistfully. She wished he was. It would be wonderful to be able to see him all day, have him always be just down the hall instead of in some unknown location like he was now. "He has found other lodgings, though I am not exactly sure where."

Damien nodded thoughtfully. "Well, I'd still like to meet this friend of yours. The way I see it, a friend of yours is a friend of mine. How is he, by the way? When we last met, you spoke of him having some…emotional…issues, perhaps due to the war…has there been any improvement?" He was gazing intensely at her now, a strange expression on his handsome face. Alana couldn't look away, or hesitate to answer him.

"You know, I think he might be getting a bit better," she said. The thought filled her with exhilaration, happiness for Erik, and for herself as well. "But it has been very gradual. He's still a bit…secretive, and defensive. Sometimes I still just don't understand him at all," she confessed. "But he's already saved my life more than once, and I trust him with all my heart." Alana thought she saw Damien's eyes flash a dark green color, but he immediately smiled again.

"You must try to convince him to come to one of my gatherings. I could invite some of my friends from the war. Or, if he prefers, we could go on an outing to see the sights, and dine in one of the fine restaurants we'll pass. Or," he said, growing excited all of a sudden, "next month, in five week's time, all my friends and I will be going out to the country to my family's estate. My parents are throwing me a ball, you see, for my twenty-third birthday. It's sure to be an exciting time. You _must_ come as well! I'll be handing out the formal invitations this Wednesday, if you would be so kind as to join me for le déjeuner again?"

Alana hesitated. The prospect of another day spent with Damien's condescending friends upset her stomach. But then again, she had never been to a ball in all her life. It was something she'd always dreamed of. And maybe Damien was right, maybe she _would_ fit in with the others soon. "I'd be delighted."

"I'd also like to invite your friend Erik to my home on Wednesday, and to the ball as well. Please, do try to encourage him to attend."

"Oh, I definitely will," Alana said. With Erik by her side, facing Damien's friends wouldn't be so hard. She would have someone else to talk to when she grew bored of their gossip, and maybe they could play games, and he could play and sing for the rest of them. It would be such fun, _if _he could be convinced to come. Somehow Alana doubted he would.

"We're here," Damien said a bit pensively. They got out and he walked her to the small but pretty front porch. "It has been a pleasure, Alana," he said, eyes shining. "I look forward to many more good times together." And with a bow, he turned and left, Alana watching as his carriage disappeared down the lane.

The moment she walked through the door, Cerise burst into the foyer, excited by the sight of the flower Damien had given her, immediately barraging her with questions about everything that had happened.

"Good heavens, Cerise," Amélie exclaimed. "Give your poor cousin a chance to breathe between questions. And you had better go to her room and continue your conversation as you clean up all those feathers from this morning."

Curses. Alana had forgotten about that.

"So, how was it being in the company of so many aristocrats?" Cerise was asking as they went up the short flight of steps to Alana's room.

"It was extremely intimidating," she answered. "Honestly, his friends weren't very nice at all, but Damien himself was the picture of pleasantness. He's invited me to come again on Wednesday."

Cerise gave her a pretend glare. "Words cannot even express how jealous I am right now. How did you ever end up so lucky?"

_I'm not always so fortunate_, Alana thought. _Just remember the reason I had to leave home and come live with you._ "I'll put in a good word for you, Cerise," she said. "I'll also try to get you an invitation to his birthday ball next month. And I have to see if I can persuade Erik to come, too."

Cerise's blue eyes sparked with curiosity. "Erik…the man who brought you here?"

"Yes." Alana said quickly, surprisingly eager to speak of him.

"Will I ever be able to meet this mysterious man? It was so odd how he left in such a hurry."

Alana nodded in agreement. "Hopefully you will. If I can ever get him to overcome his shyness and meet new people. He really is extraordinary…"

"How so?"

She tried to think. How to describe Erik…she couldn't find the words.

"Erik…isn't easy to describe. You would have to meet him for yourself to understand, I think."

"Is he handsome?"

Alana was taken aback by the sudden blunt question. Her face was growing hot again. She pictured him in her mind, and couldn't stop herself from smiling at the thought of him and his attractive, chiseled features-at least the one side of his face that wasn't hidden by that infuriatingly curious mask-and of his dark but elegant clothes, and of his beautiful but sad blue-green eyes. "Yes…I suppose he's very handsome."

"Like the Comte de Bellamy?"

"No, not quite like that. He's very…different. But handsome in his own way."

"I'm intrigued," Cerise said thoughtfully. "I hope to see this Erik soon."

"So do I." The seconds and minutes were ticking away, and Alana knew it would soon it would be time to see him again. She was already exhausted, but the thought of being with him gave her a sudden energy. She reflected on everything that had happened that day, and realized just how much she'd missed being with him. Though they hadn't been separated that long, it was the longest time and farthest distance they'd been from each other since they'd met. She and Damien were becoming fast friends, and the Comte was wonderful company, infinitely more open and cheerful than Erik, but it just wasn't the same. She couldn't wait to see Erik again.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Damien returned home, and met Raoul in the parlor, as he often did. The other man stayed overnight once in a while in one of the many guest rooms, so that they would have enough time for their private discussions. The Vicomte had been having a drink, and Damien poured himself a large glass of cognac, filling it all the way to the top and gulping it down. The alcohol burned with a satisfying fire down his throat and into his stomach, which had been turning violently the entire ride back from the Valjeans' little house. _There. That hit the spot._

"So. Have you found anything else out yet?" he asked Raoul, who was downing a glass of wine.

The other man shook his head. "Nothing. My own personal army of men out there, scouring the streets night and day, along with all the soldiers in the city who know to look out for him, and we still have _nothing._" He finished his glass and poured himself another. "What about you?"

Damien braced himself to say it. "Cornett paid me a visit last afternoon. He said he's _definitely_ here in the city, he saw him. He even took a few shots at him, but of course the bastard escaped." Damien was working on his second cognac.

Raoul cursed. "Well, at least we finally have someone who's seen him, which is more than can be said for all the months before."

Damien nodded, reaching inside his jacket to feel the object hidden deep inside, its familiar cold, hard surface a comfort to him. "We're getting close. I believe it will only be a matter of time now. Do you remember that music teacher Alana mentioned?"

"That did get my attention, but we can't assume…"

"He wears a mask."

Raoul choked on the wine. "_What_?"

"He wears a mask, Raoul. She told me, back in Rouen. And she mentioned some…strange behavior on his part."

"Like what?"

"Like emotional breakdowns, a secretive, overly defensive nature. She says that he told her he fought in the war."

"That probably is him, then. The freak seems to be a compulsive liar, and a pretty convincing one at that. At least for some people." His expression darkened.

"Thank God for Alana," Damien said, sipping his cognac a little slower now. "Now we actually have some information that can help us. Without her, we would still be chasing shadows."

"Indeed." Raoul cocked his head at his friend. "I noticed the way you were looking at her all afternoon by the way," he said, his blue eyes mischievous. "You think of her as more than a good source of information, don't you?"

Damien flushed, but he couldn't deny it. She _was_ a pretty girl, and charming as well. It was painfully obvious that she was poor, but that didn't make her any less beautiful, or less interesting to him. "Yes," he replied. "I do." And she was more than just a pretty girl. Now he knew that she was also a damsel in distress, in desperate need of rescue, trapped in the clutches of a demon.

"The others didn't seem to care for her, I thought," Raoul commented. "Would your parents disapprove of her any less? She's a nobody, Damien." He looked at his friend with the utmost seriousness.

Damien was suddenly livid. "She's not a nobody!" He shot back. "She's a wonderful, beautiful girl, and she doesn't need money or power to make me feel the way I feel about her. As if you're one to talk about this anyway-you went and married a chorus girl for God's sake!"

"You barely know Alana," Raoul argued. "How much can you truly feel for her? I'm only trying to look out for you. And yes, I love Christine, but my life hasn't been so perfect since I married her. You know how now I'm even more estranged from my parents and my brother than ever, and you've heard how everyone talks about me behind my back. You're all I have left." He finished his glass of wine and poured yet another. "Let's not argue." He clapped a hand on Damien's shoulder and grimaced when his friend pulled away. "Let's just focus on finding the monster, and getting rid of him once and for all," he said bitterly. "Maybe then things will get better for Christine and me."

"All you ever think about is yourself!" Damien snapped. "The freak didn't ruin _your _life, didn't take anything away from _you. _You got what you wanted from him. But now you're just scared that maybe your precious wife doesn't love you as much as you thought, that maybe she's still secretly in love with that monster. Well, I didn't join you in this vendetta to _improve your marriage._" He practically spat the words. "This is about one thing, and one thing only." He tipped his head back and drained the cognac, pouring still another drink. "Revenge."

"You're right." Solemnly, Raoul raised his glass. "To revenge, then."

And together they drank, the alcohol fueling the flames that burned inside them.


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

Utterly exhausted from the previous day's events and a terrible lack of sleep-he hadn't slept since the stay in Rouen-Erik had collapsed immediately onto the couch the moment he returned to the Girys' apartment. In spite of his extreme exhaustion, he could not stay asleep. He tossed and turned through endless dreams and nightmares, often waking up in a cold sweat, heart racing. He was tortured by the faces of the people he'd murdered, and by the faces of the love he'd lost and the one she'd chosen over him. Sometimes in his dark dream world he caught glimpses of light, felt a warm hand in his. Someone was there with him, helping him through the mad maze of torment, but there was always something else there, making him unable to see that someone clearly.

Madame Giry and her daughter woke early in the morning and prepared for their day of work, watching as he tossed back and forth. They both said a prayer for him, that he could be at peace, and also that his nightmares would not make him cry out too loudly and risk his being discovered. They quietly exited the apartment, leaving him muttering and moaning in his sleep.

Though he kept waking, Erik stayed where he was, trying to rest, until the middle of the afternoon, when he was unable to take it anymore. He rose, bathed, dressed, and ate a little bit of bread and drank a few glasses of wine, then set out to write some simple sheet music for Alana, as he'd promised the night before. At first he worked feverishly, writing down the music for as many classic and popular songs as he could think of, but in time his restless mind began to wander. His thoughts drifted to Alana; what she was doing now, how she would feel about tonight's lesson, the way she would respond to the music he gave her, how well she would sing for him, how she would look, even. But as he sat at the kitchen table, his eyes moved from the paper, out the small window before him to the clean streets and little gardens behind all the fine houses in Parc de Seigneurs. His thoughts floated away across the city, searching, as if he could really find what he was wishing for.

_Christine, where are you?_

The question repeated itself over and over in his head. He swore he could almost see her there, walking in the street, looking up at him in the window, coming to him…

But he knew it was nothing but his imagination playing a cruel trick on him. She would never come back to him. He forced himself to push back the feelings of anger, bitterness, and miserable loneliness that came upon him whenever he thought of her, and tried to focus on writing the music, thinking of the lesson. He _enjoyed_ being able to play the piano and organ again, and the fact that he was able to teach someone again should have filled him with happiness, even joy. After all, music and teaching were his life's passions. And spending time with Alana…for once in his life, he had what he now believed he could call a true friend…that was something very special indeed. But now, as he tried to picture her, countless, haunting images of Christine flashed through his mind, and he could see nothing else.

Evening came and at last, Erik finished his work. He had a massive stack of sheet music for Alana, as well as his own commentaries on the pieces, with background information about the songs and composers, as well as hints and exercises to help her play them, or sing them, with greater ease. He was busy placing them in a case when the door opened.

His whole body tensed, and he was instantly ready to fight or flee if he had to. But it was only Madame Giry.

"Good evening," she said, lighting the gas lamps in the front room. "Are you feeling well?"

"Where's Christine?"

He couldn't stop himself from saying it, and as soon as the words came out he saw the woman's face darken.

"I don't know," she said firmly.

"Have you seen her at all?"

"No." Erik looked closely at Antoinette; he knew she was lying to him. He could feel her uneasiness.

"You're lying to me, Antoinette," he said, his voice cold as ice. "Tell me what you know."

Madame Giry's eyes sparked with anger, resentment. "I have seen her."

"And you know where I can find her."

"Please, Erik, put this behind you. I can't tell you where she is."

He stepped closer and looked down on her, anger creeping under his skin. "Just a few simple words, Antoinette."

"I promised I would not say…"

"Promised who, that blasted vicomte?" Erik growled, his fury rising.

"I am very sorry, I truly am, but I cannot…"

Suddenly the rage burning inside him grew until it took control. He seized the woman by the shoulders, his fingers digging into her sleeves. "Tell me where she is!" he shouted.

Without warning, the door flew open, and Meg stood in the doorway, her face pale as she took in the scene unfolding. She quickly slammed the door shut and stared at Erik, who didn't seem to notice her as he stood there, glaring fiercely at Madame Giry, who, though she should have been terrified, just stared back at him, stone-faced.

"Let her go!" Meg burst out, her voice shaking.

Erik regarded her coldly for a moment, then turned back to Antoinette. "Tell me, and I'll let you go."

She sighed. "Very well." He relaxed his grip on her shoulders and stepped back, waiting. "She lives not far from here at all. On the other side of Parc de Seigneurs."

Erik's fury had immediately dissolved. His heart was racing and he felt a strange tingling sensation throughout his entire body, happiness mixed with fear. She was so close, he could easily go to her, and yet…he was afraid. He watched as Madame Giry and Meg exchanged worried glances. As he looked at them he was suddenly overcome with guilt. Meg had just walked in on him and witnessed him being violent towards her mother. Her mother, who had done nothing but help him in all the time they'd known each other.

She and Meg were just standing there, waiting to see what he would do next. He knew he couldn't bear to be in the apartment any longer; he felt so incredibly guilty. He pulled on a cloak and took up his suitcase as he headed for the front door.

"What are you going to do?" Antoinette asked him.

He stopped. "Give a music lesson. Visit Raven." She was about to say something, but he already knew what it was. He raised a hand, and she was silent. "I…don't think I'm…ready yet, to face her again."

Antoinette nodded, and moved past Erik to open the door and peer into the hall. "The way is clear. Now go. And be safe." Her eyes seemed to plead with him, and his heart ached as he realized how much she truly cared about him. Why did he always forget that?

He stepped through the door, and turned back to face her. "Thank you," he said softly. She nodded to him, looking somewhat surprised by his gratitude, and began to close the door. "Antoinette! Wait!" She opened it again, a crack. He sighed and said, "I'm sorry."

Then he turned and went to the window, leaving Madame Giry staring at him, alarmed and in disbelief. He didn't see the smile that slowly spread across her face as she watched him go.

Face obscured by his dark hood, Erik wandered through the alleys and backstreets of Paris, encountering no one but a few scattered drunks and tramps who did not give him a second glance as he went on his way. He memorized the streets one by one, mapping out each alley in his head as a possible escape route. Every sense was on alert; no sound or movement escaped his attention. Fear of others was nothing new to him, but this was different-he didn't believe he could become used to the idea that there could be unknown people hiding in the shadows as he did, trying to kill him.

When the sun had set, he made his way toward the church. Alana had not come out yet, so he decided to pick the lock on the church door and go inside to wait for her. It was as dark as it had been the night before, so he lit some gas lamps and candles near the entrance and through the sanctuary, and sat at the piano, playing to pass the time.

He found himself playing through some of _Don Juan Triumphant_, the most un-triumphant opera he had ever created. Most of the music, lost now to everyone but him, had been dark, but there were some lovely arias, especially near the end, that the world had not been able to hear, and now never would. His heart grew heavier and heavier as he played, and he imagined what it would have been like to hear Christine sing them, to join with her in singing the opera's other dark love songs. It hurt him to play that music again, in that dimly lit room, without her. All by himself.

"Good evening, Erik."

He started and spun around. There was Alana, smiling at him.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you." Her eyes sparkled with amusement. "But I suppose I _did _startle you, didn't I?"

"Of course not," he said firmly, though she was correct; she _had _caught him off guard, when he was completely lost in his music.

"I didn't want to say anything and make you stop," she explained. "What was it you were playing? I've never heard anything like it."

Erik didn't want to talk about it. Even thinking about it hurt like a knife cutting into his chest. "Perhaps we can discuss it later. Now, I'd like to show you what I've been working on for you." He opened his suitcase and let Alana take the pages out. She stared at them with excitement and fascination, but she seemed a bit overwhelmed by the amount of music he had given her.

"Thank you so much," she breathed, flipping through the pages. "You've almost written me a book, on singing and the piano. You didn't have to do all that."

Erik shrugged. "It was nothing." It was like a gift for Alana, a well-deserved one. She had given him friendship, and he was simply trying to repay her in one of the only ways he knew how. In fact, he'd rather enjoyed doing it, when his thoughts hadn't turned into bitter flashbacks and memories and longing for a chance to live his life over again. To erase all the mistakes. Why couldn't he just focus on the positives in life for once?

For once he _had_ something positive in his life. Right now, standing right in front of him, in a white dress with blue flowers on it, simple but very pretty. _It's time to focus, Erik. _And he began to teach the lesson.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Alana sang as best as she could, though she still felt she wasn't good enough. When they sang together, it seemed Erik's voice vastly outshone hers, but he was patient, and encouraging. He really was a wonderful teacher; when he was giving her a lesson, he seemed like another person entirely. In the past, she had seen the darkness disappear from his eyes as he taught her something new, seen him light up when she sang something perfectly. But tonight, though he was kind to her, he avoided her gaze more than usual, and he seemed distracted, lost in thought. He looked…troubled, but she wasn't sure whether she should ask him what was the matter or not.

"So, what were you up to before you came here tonight?" she asked instead, when they had finished and sat down on the front church pew.

Erik gave a little shrug. "Nothing really. I wrote you the music…"

"That's definitely not nothing, Erik. It's so good…it should be published!"

He smiled wryly, looking at the floor. "Do you think anyone would actually buy it?"

Alana laughed. "If I didn't think people would buy it by the masses, I wouldn't have suggested it. Honestly, Erik, you underestimate yourself far too much."

His expression darkened for a moment, and she could see just how much was going on inside his head. Then he turned to her. "As do you, you know. You _will _be a great singer someday. You're already well on your way. So." he let out a breath. "How did _you_ spend the day?"

Alana almost giggled at that. He was actually trying to make conversation. He really was changing, the more she got to know him, but there was still something there, holding him back. "I went to church in the morning, and you'll never believe who I saw there!"

"Who?" Erik seemed mildly curious.

"Damien! The man I met in Rouen. He invited me to dine with him and his friends, so that is where I spent most of my time today."

"Oh." Alana thought she detected a hint of irritation in Erik's voice. "Well, how was that?" he asked, his speech sounding rather forced.

"Damien himself is very kind and amiable," she began, "and he made me feel welcome. But his friends on the other hand, obviously didn't care for me much at all. It hurt more than I thought it would…I could tell they were looking down on me, because I don't look like them, because I'm not as rich as they are, you see…they are all aristocrats." She could feel her cheeks grow hot again just thinking about them, their stinging disapproval.

"They're fools, then."

"What?" She was taken aback by Erik's intensity as he spoke the words.

"If they look down on you because of that, they are fools." Erik looked her straight in the face, his eyes blazing. "Don't let yourself be troubled by what they say."

Alana smiled gratefully at him. "Thank you. It's hard. I want them to like me, I almost want to be like them, and yet I don't. Do you know what I mean?"

"Yes, I do," he replied, looking down at the floor again. "I know exactly what you mean." Alana watched as he stared off into space, his expression sad. He was silent for a while, and then he turned to face her. "But do you know what?"

"What?"

"It doesn't matter what they think of you. What they think of me." A thousand emotions passed across his face, and she could see that he was thinking aloud, every word coming from some place deep inside.

"We don't need anyone's approval to be who we are. People can't change who you are unless you let them, Alana."

"I know."

"Don't change for them," he said softly.

"I won't," Alana whispered. She felt like she were melting under Erik's gaze.

"Do you promise?" he asked.

"I promise," she said, smiling. "I'll shake on it." They reached out and shook hands. Neither one let go right away. Erik's hand was warm and soft against hers. Then he pulled his hand back abruptly, and the moment was over.

He looked away, to her relief, and he didn't see her face flush. But something about him was bothering her, and when the heat left her cheeks, she decided to ask.

"Erik…earlier tonight, during the lesson, you seemed…distracted. Maybe even a little upset. What's troubling you?"

He closed his eyes, almost wincing at the question, and immediately she regretted asking him. "Nothing."

"Oh come now, Erik." The more she looked at him, the more she wanted to know what was bothering him. "I can see that there's something the matter. Now what is it? You can tell me."

Erik turned his gaze back on her again. In all of her life, she had never seen a pair of eyes with such a depth of sadness within them. He pulled out the chain he wore around his neck, cradling the little diamond ring in his hands. "For so long, this ring has been a symbol of everything that could have been, of everything I lost. But now, I have this feeling, and it's telling me that maybe…I haven't lost her yet. Maybe there's still a chance for us."

Alana couldn't help it; she was sorry she had asked, and she wasn't sure why.

"You mean…for you and Christine?"

"Yes."

Her heart felt as heavy as stone. "What are you going to do?"

Erik thought for a while. "I don't know," he said with a sigh. "I know where I can find her, but I don't know what to do. What if I make the same mistakes over again? What if it's too late?"

Alana bit her lip. "The only way to know for sure is to go to her and speak with her. See what happens. Is there any bad blood between you?"

His eyes flashed for an instant with sudden intensity, and then the look faded into a softer, sadder expression. "If I could only be with her again," he said slowly, "then I can say that I would have no angry feelings towards her. But I am afraid to know what she feels…if she wants to come back, or if she is happy with the path she has chosen."

He truly felt strongly for Christine. Alana could see it now more than ever. "You have to talk to her. It's the only way you can find out."

"You're right," Erik said, though he wasn't looking at her. He got to his feet. "I have to go now. I'll see you tomorrow night." Then, he turned back to face her. "Thank you, Alana. You truly are a good friend."

_Friend. _For some reason, instead of being encouraged by his words, her heart sank, and a melancholy feeling like nothing she'd ever experienced before came over her.

She watched him go, his black cape billowing out behind him like a dark cloud. And then she was sitting in the church with just herself and God, wondering why she had to feel this way.

The next morning, after waking from a night of troubled dreams, Alana went to mail her letter to Madame Margeuerite. Cerise accompanied her to the post office, chatting merrily as they walked down the lane in the sunny morning. Alana tried her best to keep up with the conversation, but her heart was in another place. She thought of Erik, and her father, whose faces had haunted her dreams the night before. A strange cloud of gloom had fallen over her, and she worried about Erik, about his decision to go to Christine. What if she had given him ill advice, what if she only brought more hurt to him? She had definitely, unexpectedly, brought more than enough hurt to herself, she thought as she carried the letter, her hands shaking. But more than anything, she worried about her father.

This was the longest she'd ever gone without seeing him. Had he been angry, when he'd found her gone? Did he miss her at all? Had he been drinking? It pained her to think of him, to imagine all the harm that could have befallen him, and she wished she could be there with him, wished he would be the way he once was. As she approached the mailbox, she said a silent prayer for Andre. She brought the envelope to her lips and kissed it, then dropped it inside the box. She closed her eyes, hoping with everything she had that she would get an answer from Marguerite soon, telling her that her father had gotten better, that he was asking for her, that it was safe to come home.

She felt a hand on her shoulder, and looked into Cerise's kind, concerned face. "It'll be all right," her cousin said quietly. "You'll see."

Alana made herself smile back and they turned to go back home. _It'll be all right, _she repeated in her head over and over again, though she couldn't shake off the agonizing doubt in the back of her mind that told her that it wouldn't be all right. Never again. Not unless her mother could somehow, miraculously come back. Her eyes stung as she fought back tears on the long walk back.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

A man walked in the alleys, feeling more alone than he ever had in his life. For as long as he could remember, he'd been surrounded by family and friends-it was part of his lifestyle, who he was. But they were all gone now. Dead or vanished. Or they had abandoned him, like the last of his friends had done just days ago. He was embarking on a fool's mission, they'd said, and they would have no part of it. They didn't want to die.

The man didn't want to be killed either. He wanted _someone else _to die. But as he wandered through the city, he couldn't shake off the words of warning his friends had given him. What if he never found what he was looking for? What if he did, and ended up dying as soon as he found it? He could never know, unless he tried. And so he kept searching. It was his new job, after all. If he could provide valuable information, he would be rewarded.

He shuffled through a pile of garbage, wrinkling his nose at the pungent smell, worse than most in these filthy alleyways. He looked down, and glimpsed something horrifying.

A human hand.

Hurriedly he pushed away the rubbish, discovering to his repulsion, not one, but two corpses. From the looks of it they had not been dead for a very long time. Disgusted, but curious at the same time, he knelt down to get a closer look. Their clothes were torn and stained, but he could tell they were wearing officer's jackets. Soldiers. Both of their necks were broken.

He almost turned away, but then, something inside his mind clicked.

He had seen something like that once before.

Looking back at the dead bodies, his heart began to pound as his mind raced toward a conclusion he was almost sure of. No, he _was_ sure. It had to be. He had only been here a few days. These corpses were new. And he had seen someone before, with his neck broken, just like these most unfortunate soldiers. It was something he would never forget.

He broke into a run, leaving the dirty streets for a beautiful park with fine houses and gardens. At the finest house of all, he stopped, ringing the bell over and over until someone answered, a grave-looking woman with braided hair.

"I must speak to the Comte de Bellamy!" he cried, resisting the urge to run past her into the mansion.

"Come with me, then monsieur," the woman said, slowly, leading him inside at an agonizingly slow pace. She brought him to a drawing room, and after what seemed like an eternity of waiting, the Comte arrived, looking as restless as his guest.

"You may leave us, now, Madame Giry," the Comte said, and the woman left, closing the door behind her.

The Comte turned to his visitor, his gaze intent. "Well? I'm assuming you've found something."

"Yes, my lord!" The man was so worked up he could hardly get the words out. "I was walking, in an alley…about half an hour's walk from here…"

"And?"

"I found…two dead bodies, sir! Soldiers, just recently dead."

The Comte raised an eyebrow. "Well, that's interesting. But what is its relevance to you or me?"

"Their…their necks were broken, my lord. And I have a hunch, sir."

The Comte looked thoughtful, but apprehensive. "Are you saying you think you know who killed them?"

The other man nodded enthusiastically. "Yes, my lord. I have seen such an injury once before, and it is something I will never forget."

"Ah." The Comte gave him a sympathetic look. "There are so many of you that I've talked to, but your story in particular stuck out to me. Your poor uncle died in a similar way, did he not?"

"Yes he did, sir."

"And do you think the person who murdered your uncle and the one responsible for the deaths of these soldiers…they are one and the same?"

"Almost entirely certain, my lord."

The Comte smiled bitterly, if that were possible. "Thank you for this bit of information. Continue to investigate what you've found. See if you can learn who these soldiers are, where they came from…speaking of which, where exactly did you find these dead bodies?"

"I don't remember the street name, but I know one near it. I went through Sacree Boulevard to get here."

The Comte grinned strangely and clapped him on the shoulders. "Excellent. Now, back out into the city with you. Keep looking." He reached into a wallet and pulled out some francs.

The informant showered the Comte with gratitude, and counted the money over and over again. With this, he would be able to afford many of the things he'd been forced to go without. And should his information prove to be _truly _useful, he would become a wealthy man.

"Yours is not the only lead I have, my friend," the Comte told him, and the informant's heart stung a little with jealousy. "As we speak, my closest friend and I are devising a plan. Soon, we will have our revenge. You have been a great asset already, Emilian. Thank you." He smiled beatifically and motioned for the informant to leave.

Out in the hall, Emilian was immediately met by the woman with the braided hair, a housekeeper, who led him back to the door.

"If you don't mind me asking monsieur…" she began, her voice nervous, "…what was it you and the master were speaking of?"

"The Comte and I have a personal score to settle with someone, a madman who ruined both of our lives. I can tell you nothing more, servant. You would do well to mind your own business."

And with that, Emilian left, eager to dig up more information, maybe even catch a glimpse of the target. Meanwhile the Comte de Bellamy plotted alone in his mansion.


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter Twenty

The afternoon sun shone hot and bright as Alana made her way to the church, carrying a few of the pages of sheet music Erik had given her. Since the morning, she'd been unable to sit still; all she could think of was receiving that reply from her letter to Madame Marguerite. Waiting to find out the condition of her father was unbearable.

But as soon as she placed her fingers on the shining white keys of the church piano, a sense of peace came over her, and though she struggled to play through her songs on her own, in time she became completely absorbed in the music. While she played, and later practiced her singing, she felt she could almost hear Erik's voice, coaching her and encouraging her the whole way through, as if he were really there.

After she'd sung the last note of one of her songs, she was startled to hear the sanctuary door open.

"Alana?" Her cousin stood in the doorway on the other side of the room, looking astonished. "Is that _you_?"

"Yes," Alana answered, slightly embarrassed that Cerise had walked in while she was singing. "I was just practicing."

"Incredible," Cerise marveled, walking down the aisle toward her. "That was practice? Alana, I stood outside the door for a full ten minutes, just listening to you sing. You're amazing." Her eyes glowed with praise.

Alana stepped back, stunned. "Oh, no, I'm not, I still have a lot to learn…"

"Don't be so modest, cousin," Cerise said. "You're wonderful. And what's this?" She noticed the sheet music at the piano. "You play, as well? My, someone's accomplished!"

"Oh, no," Alana stammered. "I'm only just learning to play. I can scarcely play anything."

"Well, there's no denying you can sing. You simply _must _join the choir! Once everyone hears you, you'll be getting _all _the solos!" Cerise said excitedly.

Alana didn't know what to think. She'd seen the way Erik's eyes brightened when she sang, and she'd also been corrected by him if she made a mistake. He knew she wasn't a perfect singer. "I'm not all that good, Cerise," Alana said. "When I have lessons…"

"Lessons? But who's teaching you?" Cerise asked, confused. "You can't be having lessons here…you only just arrived!"

"Erik's teaching me." Just saying his name out loud set her heart racing.

"Oh. Well, he must be an excellent teacher, though you're obviously naturally talented. Come on, Alana, we have to go at once to Mother and tell her you want to be in the choir! You _do _want to, don't you?"

Alana thought of what Erik would say…he would like her to take this opportunity to practice even more and perform for others…it would help her grow as a singer. She felt it was something he would approve of. Maybe he would come and see her sing with the choir on Sundays. She smiled at the thought, then turned to her cousin and said, "Yes, I think I do." She took up her pages of sheet music and left with Cerise.

When they came outside, they saw a very fine carriage-but not quite as elegant as the one she had ridden in yesterday-stopped in front of the house. Still, Alana knew at once that it belonged to the Comte de Bellamy.

"Oh. My. Goodness," Cerise whispered. "What's he doing here?"

"I don't know," Alana said, every bit as surprised as her cousin.

A man in servant's clothes stepped out of the carriage, carrying a little white envelope in his black-gloved hand. He went to the door. Meanwhile, Alana and Cerise were crossing the street, and got to the man before he rang the bell.

"Excuse me, mademoiselles," the servant said, turning his head and tipping his hat to them. "Which one of you is Mademoiselle Alana Valjean?"

"She is!" Cerise exclaimed, pointing to Alana before she could stutter out a reply.

"Ah. Very good. This is a note to you, from my lord, Comte Damien de Bellamy. He wished me to tell you that he regrets not being able to deliver it in person." He handed her the envelope and stepped back. "I humbly ask, mademoiselle, if you would be so kind as to read it now, so that I may return to him with your reply as soon as possible."

"Oh, yes, of course," Alana said, opening the envelope and pulling out a small piece of fine stationery.

Mademoiselle Alana,

It was a pleasure to be in your company yesterday afternoon, and I hope you enjoyed yourself as much as I did. I am writing to you so that I can know for certain whether to expect you and Monsieur Erik (forgive me, I do not believe I know his surname) back again on Wednesday afternoon. It would be an honor to have the two of you join me. Regrettably, my other friends are unable to attend, but I see this as a wonderful opportunity for the three of us to become better acquainted. Perhaps I could give you a grand tour of our fair city. What say you?

Eagerly awaiting your reply.

Damien.

Cerise read over Alana's shoulder as she looked at the letter, and Alana could tell that her cousin could scarcely contain her excitement. She read through the letter about three times, admiring the beautiful handwriting, thinking of Damien as he wrote it. It would certainly be nice to have a chance to speak to him without his condescending, gossiping friends there. And to have Erik meet Damien…that would be wonderful. Maybe the two of them could be friends. _Poor Erik_, she thought, _Having someone else to talk to would do him good. _He and Damien already had something in common-they'd both fought in the war. Wednesday could be the perfect chance for them to get to know each other…but she wasn't sure Erik would agree to come.

Alana looked up at the servant and said, "You may tell the Comte that I would be delighted to join him on Wednesday, and that I thank him for the invitation. But please, also tell him that I am not certain Monsieur Erik will be able to attend."

"Very well, mademoiselle," the servant said, bowing. "I will tell him."

"Thank you, monsieur."

"You're most welcome!" he said, with a rather surprised smile.

Once they got inside the house and had gone to Alana's room, Cerise took both of her cousin's hands in hers and said, beaming, "Oh, you are the luckiest girl I know, honestly, Alana!"

Alana laughed. "It's nothing to warrant this kind of excitement!"

"Nonsense," Cerise said. "More than likely, it will just be the two of you on Wednesday. How does that not warrant excitement?"

Alana gave her a wry look. "There's nothing going on between Damien and me."

"That's what you think," Cerise said, blue eyes sparkling. "I saw the way he was looking at you yesterday."

Alana stepped back, her cheeks burning so hot it hurt. She looked at her cousin and though the other girl was smiling, she detected a hint of jealousy in Cerise's face. She felt sick to her stomach; it was obvious that Cerise liked Damien very much. "Do you really think…"

"Oh, I can scarcely imagine it!" her cousin continued, "Having a Comte fall in love with you just after you arrive in Paris! Now I know why they call this the city of lovers…"

"He's not my lover, Cerise!" Alana interrupted, startling herself with the intensity in her voice.

Cerise stopped talking for a moment, wide-eyed. "So you don't…like him?"

"Of course I like him. He's a wonderful, kind man…"

"But you don't like him that way." The other girl looked utterly confused, yet relieved. "Why ever not? He's got to be the handsomest man you've seen in your life! At least, he is to me."

"Well, you are right about that," Alana had to admit.

"So how is it even possible that you don't like him?"

Alana was about to answer, and then realized she couldn't. If she were being completely honest with herself, she would say that Damien seemed to be the kind of man she had dreamed of finding. But at the moment, she didn't have feelings for him. Maybe it was the fact that she barely knew him. Maybe the two of them were from walks of life that were too opposite one another. Or maybe…

She could feel her cousin staring at her, looking thoughtful.

"Oh." Cerise said mischievously. "I know why. It _has_ to be."

"What?" Alana was getting nervous now for some reason.

"You don't have feelings for Damien because you already have feelings for someone else."

Alana felt herself blush. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You're in love with that mystery man of yours." Cerise ran her hand over the pile of sheet music on the desk in Alana's room. "Erik."

At the mention of his name, Alana's cheeks only burned more.

Cerise clapped her hands together. "Oh, that _is _romantic. In love with the mysterious man who saved your life…"

Alana couldn't believe the other girl was saying these things. They were things she had thought about, many times when she was alone, or sometimes even with Erik. But it was a waste of time to feel that way. "Erik and I are not lovers either, Cerise. Just last night when I saw him, he told me I was a good friend to him. And, might I add, he emphasized the word, _friend."_

"Last night? You saw him last night?"

Oh no. She'd said too much. "Well, yes…"

"But you were _here._ And he never came to the house…"

"I left. He and I went to the church ."

"What on earth for? You've got a lot of explaining to do, cousin." Cerise sat herself down on the bed and looked at Alana expectantly.

"He's giving me music lessons, remember?" By now Alana was having trouble hiding her exasperation with the other girl. This conversation was extremely uncomfortable.

"In the middle of the night?" Cerise looked unconvinced. "Come now, don't you think that's a little suspicious? Risqué, even?"

"It's just Erik's way. He doesn't go about in the daytime."

"Why not?"

Alana sighed. "He just doesn't."

"And you're sure he has the most honest of intentions, sneaking off with a young woman in the middle of the night?" The mischief and excitement was gone from Cerise's face; now concern was written all across it. "Wearing a mask, no less! Papa told me what little he knew about him last afternoon. Why does this Erik wear a mask? What's he hiding? Can you really trust a man like that?"

"He wears a mask because his face was badly damaged during a battle, and he doesn't want anyone to see it. And there's nothing wrong with his intentions…I'd trust him with my life," Alana said firmly.

"Would you trust him with your heart?"

The room had gone all cold. Alana's throat hurt, and her eyes stung. Inside, her heart had that heavy feeling again. "He's in love with someone else." She forced herself to say it, the words like an icy stab to her chest.

"Oh," was all her cousin said, and Alana nodded slowly, numbly, making herself maintain her composure. "I think…" Cerise began, "I think you really _do_ love him. I can see in your eyes."

She hated feeling like this, had never imagined it could be so painful. "But it's just a waste, isn't it? He loves someone else."

"Oh, come here." Cerise stood up and pulled Alana into a hug. "Dear cousin," she said softly, "don't trouble yourself over such things. After all, time changes everything. Maybe, Erik will realize that the one he really loves is you. But if he doesn't, there's still Damien. I've known him…well, not really…but I know what he's like. And I know that he fancies you, Alana. You could always give him a chance."

They stepped back, and in spite of herself Alana smiled. "I couldn't do that, Cerise."

"Why not?"

"Because I know how much _you_ like him."

Cerise's jaw dropped, and for once she was speechless.

"I told you I'd put in a good word for you, and I shall, when I see him on Wednesday," Alana said with a grin.

Cerise beamed at her. "You really are the best, Alana. It's a terrible shame that we went so long without being able to see each other."

"It is," Alana said, trying not to think about how much easier life could have been if she'd had someone like her cousin by her side when Una had passed away. She would never have had to feel so alone in the world.

"Well, we're together now," Cerise said, giving Alana another quick hug. "Thank the Lord for that."

"Amen!" Alana said, and they both laughed.

The cousins spent the afternoon with Amélie in the garden out back, weeding and watering. Alana had agreed to join the choir, and both her aunt and Cerise were excited by the news.

"Would you girls mind helping me pick some of those herbs over there?" Amélie asked, wiping her brow and shading her eyes from the hot sun.

"Not at all." Alana and Cerise said, beginning to pick the herbs. As she worked, Alana began softly humming the song she and her mother had always sung when they were in the garden together.

_"Remember me to one who lives there…"_

_"…he once was a true love of mine."_ Cerise and Amélie joined in, and soon they were all singing together, verse after verse. Their voices rose and fell with the song in perfect harmony, and it almost seemed to Alana that her mother was there too, singing with them in her clear, sweet voice.

"Una loved that song, didn't she?" her aunt asked after all the herbs were picked, smiling sadly.

Alana just nodded. After a moment like that, words were hard to find.

"Do you know what? Singing it reminded me of something, just now." Amélie got to her feet. "Cerise, would you mind bringing these things to the kitchen? There's something I need to show Alana."

Her aunt led her to the library. Uncle Raimond looked up from his desk, strewn all over with books. "What's going on?"

"I'm looking for something of Una's," Amélie explained. "I was hoping you could help me find it in this…mess." She looked disapprovingly at the cluttered shelves and furniture piled high with books and papers in disarray.

Raimond seemed oblivious to his wife's disdain for his lack of organization. "I think I know what it is you're looking for." He got up and reached for something on the top shelf. He pulled out a gigantic volume and handed it to a confused Alana. It was very heavy, and she had to set it on the desk.

"What on earth?" she asked. "This belonged to my mother?"

"Yes," Amélie said. "She brought it here once to show it to me, and left it behind by mistake. It was placed on a shelf and forgotten until just now…I do wish I'd returned it to her."

"Don't worry. It's all right." Alana turned her gaze onto the book. "But what is this?"

"Open it and see," Raimond said, he and his wife smiling at each other.

Alana ran her hand over the soft burgundy velvet cover, unmarked, and opened the book. She flipped through the first pages. "What? It's…blank."

"Keep looking!" Amélie told her.

Curious, Alana kept thumbing through the pages until she glimpsed something colorful. She stopped on a page and stared in amazement. There, against a pale blue background, was a gorgeous picture of…no, they actually _were_ flowers. Amaryllis, lilies, primroses, orchids, poppies, and sweet alyssum were all artistically woven together with magnolia leaves. "Pressed flowers," she realized. Beneath the arrangement, written in a lovely, familiar hand, were the words, _A Thing of Beauty is a Joy Forever._

"Aren't they beautiful?" Amélie came closer to look at the page. Alana nodded enthusiastically, and her aunt smiled. "There's more."

Alana looked through pages and pages of the pressed flower arrangements, with their brilliant colors and sayings, proverbs, or messages to other people written below them. Each one was stunningly beautiful.

"Una told me that she made most of these as a girl growing up in Scotland. She had a garden full of blossoms, and she also loved going up to the hills to find the wildflowers that grew there. Some of the flowers in this book are extremely rare, and I've never seen them anywhere else. They're all yours now. She would have wanted you to have them."

"Thank you so much for showing me these." Alana gave her aunt and uncle a hug, and then took the book and went to her room.

Looking through the book made her feel as though her mother were in the room with her. She could picture her placing the flowers together, could hear her voice reading out the little verses she had written there. Many of the arrangements were dedicated to her mother's friends and family, many of whom Alana had never met. There was one made up of differently colored roses and dedicated to her father Andre. She turned to a page that had no flowers, just a tasteful arrangement of four different herbs…she soon realized they were parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme. And beneath it was a little poem, penned by Una herself, when she was just a young girl.

_When sorrow and bitterness fill your days,_

_These parsley herbs will take them away._

_When strength is gone and heart is cold,_

_Sage will mend you, this I'm told._

_Faithful love, and memories many_

_Will ne'er be forgotten by those with rosemary._

_Fear and terror can be kept at bay,_

_For thyme, in time, can chase it away._

_In days of darkness, these four herbs_

_Are said to cure life's many hurts._

_True or not, this may be_

_But it's truly the Lord who sets us free._

_In Him we find forgiveness, peace,_

_And Strength greater than any grief._

As she read Una's poem, tears came to Alana's eyes. Even as a child, her mother had been inspiring, full of life, love, and wisdom beyond her years.

She missed her so much.

Finally, Alana came to the very last page that held a pressed flower arrangement. Verbena and pink carnations were entwined with snowdrops and lilies of the valley in the most beautiful display she had seen yet. The top of the page was dated April 14, 1853. Alana gasped. That was only ten days after she had been born. And then she saw what was written at the bottom of the page beneath the flowers.

_To my darling Alana:_

_You haven't been here long, but I can't imagine life without you. __You are the most precious blessing. __I pray that your life will be a happy one, that you will never lack in anything. __And know this, my dear little girl: __Life is not always easy. __In your days, you may encounter fear, and injustice, and isn't a rare thing in this world. __But through everything, the dark and the light, e__ven if we must be parted, you may rest in knowing that y__our mother will always love you. __You will forever be in my heart, and I will be in yours. __Wherever you go, I'll be there._

_Love always, _

_Mother._

Tears streamed down Alana's face now as she read. This was something she had been needing for so long. She was so grateful to her aunt for showing her this book; as she read these words she felt closer to Una than she ever had since she died. Her hands went to the gold locket around her neck, and she rose and opened her window, looking up at the blue sky above. She wiped her tears away and smiled as she thought of her mother-an angel now, really-looking down on her from somewhere beyond the sky, smiling back at her with all the radiance of a thousand suns.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The night and day seemed to drag on forever, as Erik sat alone in the Giry apartment. He just lay there on the couch until the morning, unable to sleep at all. During the day, while Antoinette and Meg were gone, he paced the floor for hours, thinking. Every part of him wanted to go to the house where Christine lived, but he couldn't risk venturing outside while the sun still shone. Someone could recognize him. Then he had a terrible thought: what if he went to Christine, and she turned him in? She wouldn't…she couldn't…could she?

He couldn't know for sure.

She had betrayed him before, but at her father's grave, she had stopped the Vicomte from killing him. And surely, she wouldn't betray him a second time.

Maybe it was time to go back to the beginning. Maybe if he retraced their steps together, reliving their past experiences, he could erase the mistakes he'd made before, and Christine would choose him.

_Oh what nonsense. You can't rewrite the past._

But he had to try something.

And so he took a pen and paper and began to write a note.

It had only been a day, but it seemed like a year had passed since he'd seen Alana last. As they headed to the sanctuary, Alana seemed unusually cheerful. She was telling him about a book of her mother's that she'd been given, full of pressed flowers, something he didn't think he'd ever seen before. Her hazel eyes shone as she spoke of the woman and her book, and he could see how glad she was that she had found it, and how much she had loved her mother.

"How happy for you," he said, lacking anything better to say. "Your mother was a good woman, was she not?'

"The best," was Alana's emphatic reply.

Erik nodded, trying to maintain his composure. Everything had gone numb all of a sudden, and bitter memories flooded his mind. A harsh voice shouting at him over and over and over again, hurting like the stinging slaps that rained down on his face. Cruel words creeping beneath his skin, whispering lies-or were they truths?-deep into his soul. _No, not now. No more flashbacks. Not now. Not ever._

"Erik, what are you looking at?"

Alana's voice jolted him back to reality; he was sitting in a church with a beautiful young girl, such a contrast between what was happening now and what was going through his head. "…nothing." Was all he said.

"Oh. All right." She paused for a moment and set her sheet music on the piano. "You know, I've never heard you say anything about _your_ mother before. Where is she now?"

He just shook his head. "I don't know. I don't want to talk about her." He closed his eyes and fought off the painful flashbacks. "Let's get on with the lesson."

"Scales, then?" Alana was looking at him, and it was obvious she wasn't thinking about music either. Concern for him, as usual, was written all over her face, and there was something else there too, something he didn't recognize. But in time both of them pushed all other thoughts aside, and they were lost in the music together.

Erik's pocket watch read two o'clock when he left the church. Shrouded in his black cloak, he was invisible in the dark empty streets as he made his way back to Parc de Seigneurs. But instead of stopping at the Marquis' house, he walked past it, moving between the trees that surrounded the Parc, keeping out of the sight of the soldiers who patrolled the streets here.

The night was dark, and he couldn't see the stars. The only light came from the street lamps standing at every corner.

At last, he came to the house at the very end of the Parc. It was not quite as spectacular as the Bellamy house, but it was as tall as the old trees that flanked it, and it was beautifully designed. What made this particular property stand out from the rest, though, was the massive iron fence that surrounded it. It must have been at least twice his height, with solid metal bars close together, almost completely obscuring the front garden from view. The giant fence was unsightly, the only eyesore in the entire Parc. But the address was correct. This was where the Vicomte de Chagny lived. Where Christine lived.

Behind these prison walls.

He had to find a way inside. Erik moved closer to the fence and peered between the metal bars. Two hulking watchdogs were stretched out by the front door, asleep. He hadn't planned on entering through the front, but he wondered if there were more watchdogs on the grounds. He would have to be even more quiet now.

Erik went around back, and took in his surroundings. He was standing beneath several tall trees, one of which had branches that just barely reached over the fence. He pulled himself up into that tree, and for the first time he was able to get a clear look at the house and garden. The grounds were immaculately cared for, with countless flowers blooming here and there, amongst topiaries and ornate, sparkling fountains. It was a beautiful place, really, but marred by the ugliness of the iron fence.

He edged along the branch that hung over into the garden. There were no dogs on this side, and the windows of the house were darkened. All was still. He let himself drop off the branch, and after a second of freefall, his feet landed on the grass with a thud. His pulse quickened, the sudden sound ringing in his ears, but nothing happened, and he knew no one had seen or heard him. He stole quickly across the garden, trying to come up with a plan. What was wrong with him? He _always _had a plan, but tonight, he was clueless, and had no idea what would happen.

Erik paused, his back against the wall of the house. He wiped the cold beads of sweat off his forehead, and waited until his pulse slowed, making himself focus on the task at hand. His gaze fell upon a fairly tall tree that stood nearby, growing past the second story of the house, its branches not too far from a large balcony.

Soon he was climbing up that tree, balancing his weight carefully on the smaller, narrower branches beneath his feet. The limbs didn't grow as close to the balcony as he would have liked; he was going to have to jump. He balanced himself firmly on the branch he stood on, looked with a calculating eye at the balcony ahead of him, and then he leapt.

For a single moment, it felt like he was flying. The wind had picked up, and it seemed to push him along, his cape billowing out around him like a strange set of wings. But then there was the hard stone of the balcony beneath him, and Erik's heart beat faster yet again. He dared to glance at the doorway to the room that opened out into this space. The door stood ajar, revealing a large, well-lit and finely decorated room. He couldn't see anyone there, but he didn't want to take any chances. Hurriedly, he pulled the envelope from the inside of his jacket. He was searching for the perfect place to leave it when he suddenly heard a sound from inside the house like the opening and closing of a door.

Immediately Erik backed into the corner, out of sight of whoever was inside. He kept listening, and picked up the faint sound of footsteps coming closer. He glanced upwards. Luckily for him, the roof was just a short leap up from where he stood. He pulled himself quickly onto the roof and moved back a ways. Lying flat against the slate underneath his cloak and the cover of darkness, he was near invisible. He clutched the envelope to his chest as he waited to see who would come out onto the balcony.

He heard her before he saw her.

That sweet, clear soprano voice that had been inside his head since the first moment he'd heard it.

Instantly he knew she was singing "Think of Me," the first aria she'd ever sung in front of a full audience. One of his favorite songs of all time.

And then, she came out onto the balcony, and Erik's heart melted.

There she was.

Seeing her, _hearing_ her, was like a drink of water after being lost in the desert, like a feast after a famine. Now that she stood so near, he realized how much he'd truly missed her. His chest felt like someone had stuck a knife through it. He wanted to leap down from the roof and take her in his arms, bring her away from this place, but he knew he couldn't just yet. He lay there, quietly, looking down on her and listening to her sing; the notes of her song seemed to dance through the night air.

She was so beautiful. Her dark curls were loose, tumbling down the back of an exquisite blue gown studded with jewels. Christine was standing near the balcony's edge, looking out at the garden, and up at the night sky with its invisible stars, hidden by the dark clouds. Then, she turned, and he could see her face. Skin like porcelain. Deep brown eyes. How he loved her.

But there was something wrong. Her eyes held a great sadness. She stopped singing, and knelt on the stone, bringing up her hands and hiding her face. From the rise and fall of her shoulders, he could see she was weeping. His heart broke for her.

Then he saw her wipe the tears from her face, and she rose to her feet and looked again to the sky.

"_All I want is freedom, a world with no more night…"_

Erik's fists clenched. The words she sang now filled him with pain, reminding him of one of the worst nights of his life, when he'd stood on the roof of the Opera House and watched Christine fall in love with another man. For a moment, he considered tearing up the letter and throwing the pieces into the wind, but he refused to let it go, holding it close to his heart.

"Christine?" called out a familiar voice. The sound was like a rush of poison entering Erik's veins. The world around him started spinning, his fists clenching and unclenching as violent thoughts of rage filled his mind. He was seeing red, and he wanted to see more. He wanted to see the Vicomte's blood spill out onto the stone, wanted to laugh as he watched him die.

But something was holding him back. A voice somewhere beyond the rage, telling him to stay where he was. To be calm. _There has been enough blood. The last thing you want to do is take another life. _

And so he just lay there, wrestling with his thoughts, as he watched the man he hated most in all the world come out onto the balcony.

"What are you doing out here so late?" he asked, bewilderment all over his face. As it usually was.

Christine hesitated for a moment, glancing out beyond the garden walls. "I was just…thinking."

The Vicomte laughed. "Little Lotte thought of everything…"

"…and nothing," she muttered distantly.

"Come with me, Christine," the man said, putting his arm around her. It was all Erik could do not to scream with rage. He wanted to leap down from the roof and throw the Vicomte off the balcony. "I can see you're tired. You need rest. Besides, this night air isn't good for you." Christine nodded slowly in agreement and she went off with her husband, disappearing from Erik's sight.

He heard the door close behind them, loud and hard, like it had been slammed shut in his face. Then he waited for what seemed like forever, until he felt certain it would be safe to move. He slowly inched forward, and dropped the envelope, watching it flutter to the balcony, landing directly by the door. Immediately, he jumped down from the roof and into the nearby tree, climbing down into the garden.

This time, he would not be able to climb a tree and over the fence. He would have to pick the lock on the back gate. After shooting a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure the watchdogs were far away, he took a pick from inside one of his jacket pockets and fiddled with the lock until it opened. He pushed the gate forward slightly, almost cringing at the expectation of hearing a terrible creak. But it was silent. Obviously the gate was a new construction. He moved through the gateway, locked it again, and closed it. The lock came back into place with a hideously loud clank. Immediately the watchdogs started barking, and he heard them running across the garden towards the gate.

But by the time they got there, the Phantom was long gone.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

"What's wrong?" Raoul was asking her, though she could scarcely understand or hear a word he said above the melodies in her head. The music filled her thoughts day and night, and she could think of little else. She wanted to be a part of it, to be completely consumed by that world, and yet it terrified her more than anything.

"I don't know…" she said, unsure of what to say. "I suppose…maybe I just miss things."

"Like what?" Raoul raised an eyebrow suspiciously. Lately, he hadn't seemed quite himself either, always on edge, and he wouldn't let her out of his sight for a minute.

"I miss my old life, at the Opera House…" she trailed off a little as the memories came rushing to her. "My friends, dancing, singing…"

"But you have all those things here," he said, rather confused, a bit offended even.

"I know," Christine said. "And I love it here. Honestly I do. But I can't help but think of all those days…and nights…" she stopped mid-sentence again, her thoughts far away.

"You would do well to put those memories out of your mind," Raoul told her. "I can see they're upsetting you. And all I want is for you to be happy." He pulled her close and wrapped her in his arms. She buried her face in his shoulder.

"Will I ever be free of him?"

She couldn't stop the words from coming. Raoul held her even tighter and said softly, "You will. I know it. And maybe sooner than you think."

The thought filled her with relief, and utter despair. Raoul let go of her and said, "Wait right here. Rest a while. I'll bring you a little chamomile tea, and then we can both try and get some sleep tonight." There was a smudging of purple under his eyes. He was weary as well.

Christine sank into a velvet armchair, staring at herself in the large mirror that hung on the wall above an old mahogany bureau. She hardly recognized herself anymore. She looked beautiful, with her expensive clothes and jewelry and cosmetics, but she felt as though she were looking at a different person. She gazed for the longest time into the mirror, searching for something beyond the surface.

Her heart stopped when she saw a glimmer of white in the reflection.

But then there was nothing. She got up and ran to the mirror, looking at every inch, pushing and pulling at it. But it was simply a pane of glass in a gilt frame, and there was nothing there. She turned her attention to the room itself-nothing was different. And then her eyes strayed to the balcony.

There was something on the ground that hadn't been there before.

_Probably just a piece of rubbish, blown in by the wind, _she thought as she went to the door for a closer look She opened the door and bent down to pick up what was not a piece of rubbish, but a small, white envelope.

Suddenly, she heard a faint clang, like the closing of the gate. She ran to the side of the balcony and looked out into the garden. The dogs had started barking furiously and were barreling towards the gate, but there was nothing there but silence and darkness.

Perhaps it had been nothing.

Perhaps it had been a ghost.

In her current state of mind, she half expected the envelope she held to bear the ghastly red skull-faced seal she and many others had come to dread, but this one was totally unmarked. With trembling hands, she opened it, pulling out a slip of paper and unfolding it. The lamps burning in the room behind her gave her enough light to read the words.

_Angel of music, how I've fallen._

_Now life is naught but darkness._

_Angel of music, I betrayed you_

_With my evil and lies._

_Forgive me now love, I beg you._

_I'm tormented by my own sin._

_When you left me in the shadows, _

_Did you forget me then?_

_Angel of music, I'm a monster._

_But please know that one thing is true_

_All that I did, be it good or evil_

_Was done because I love you._

_You are my angel of music._

_Forgive me, my angel of music_

_I need you, angel of music._

_Return to me, angel of music_.

As Christine's eyes moved across the dark lines of hastily penned words, she knew immediately who had written them. She could hear the Phantom's voice in her head, smooth and deep, but breaking with emotion. She could feel his despair, his self-loathing and loneliness. And she could feel the love he still had for her. Christine longed to read the letter over and over again, but she quickly went inside and hid it in the bureau, and none too soon, for just after she'd closed the drawer, Raoul came into the room with a cup of tea on a porcelain saucer, smiling at her.

Inside her heart was breaking, but a smile spread across her face as well, and she sat and sipped the tea with him. They talked of pleasant things and laughed, while beneath her calm façade Christine's world was in chaos.

The Phantom of the Opera was here…and not just inside her mind.


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter Twenty-one

It was strange, riding in that fine carriage alone. Though she was wearing a borrowed dress, and didn't have a sous to her name, Alana could almost imagine she was a rich young Parisian aristocrat as she watched the beautiful streets pass by through the clear glass windows. The driver had told her that Damien was not able to join her in the ride over due to business matters, but that he would be waiting for her at the house when they arrived.

As she looked out the window, Alana thought of the past day's events. She had gone to her first choir practice, and it went well. She received a score of compliments from the other men and women, and she was looking forward to learning new songs, though the thought of singing in front of an entire congregation was rather terrifying. When she had told Erik about her fears the night before, he had a piece of advice for her, as he always did when they were talking about music.

He had said, "Never be afraid when you're singing. Being a singer is more than just hitting all the right notes. In order to be a truly great singer, you have to put your whole heart, your very soul, into your song._ Feel_ the music. Then you'll become one with it, and you won't even be _able_ to fear the audience. Let the song take you where you want to be." Alana wasn't sure she could even do that, but she just listened quietly as he spoke. He turned to her, eyes shining passionately as he spoke of music, the thing he seemed to love above all else. There was the faintest hint of a smile on his face as he said, "There's no reason for you to be afraid. True, there is much still for you to learn, but I think that the world has gone on long enough being deprived of your voice, Alana. It truly is special. I promise. They'll love you, like I…"

Then he'd trailed off, and they began to talk of other things and practice her music, though Alana wondered, and still wondered now, what Erik had almost said. It could have been nothing. But it could have been something, something she longed to hear.

Alana tried to put it out of her mind. She had the whole day before her, just to spend with Damien, and knowing him, it would be a good day. She had asked Erik last night if he would join them, but he had politely declined. That didn't surprise her in the least.

The ride seemed much longer without Damien in the carriage with her, talking to pass the time. But finally they pulled in front of that glorious mansion, and a servant came to open the door for her, help her out of the carriage, and lead her into the house. There she was met by the housekeeper; Alana recognized her, the woman with the braided hair who had been there on Sunday. The housekeeper took her to a sitting room.

"The Comte will be joining you very shortly, mademoiselle. He just has some…business dealings to finish first. He told me to give you his apologies for the wait."

"Oh, it's quite all right," Alana said, and the housekeeper left. As she waited, she looked around the room at all the fine things, the gold and silver, the luxurious furniture, and the pictures on the walls. Over the mantel hung a gilt-framed portrait of a man, who, though very stern-looking, could have been Damien's grandfather. Her eyes traveled across the mantel and the walls, seeing a history in pictures of Damien's family. It seemed he came from a very long line of powerful aristocrats, all of them the picture of cool formality in the old paintings and newer photographs. Then Alana's gaze fell upon a frame that was lying face-down on a bookshelf. Curious, she slowly turned it over.

It was another photograph, much more recent than any she'd seen yet, and much different.

There was Damien, standing with his hand on the back of a chair. Though he was dressed in the most formal attire, and the photographs before him had all been of the utmost seriousness, he was standing there, smiling from ear to ear, and looking down at the most adorable little boy Alana had ever seen. He was sitting in the chair, his feet dangling far from the floor. He looked to be about four or five, and he had sweet blond curls in sharp contrast to Damien's thick, jet-black hair. His big brown eyes sparkled with joy as he smiled back at Damien. He had the most precious smile.

It almost brought tears to Alana's eyes, looking at that picture. All the photographs she had seen before had appeared so stiff, cold, unreal. But this one had so much warmth and happiness, a snapshot of a beautiful moment in time. She could see the love in Damien's eyes, and the eyes of the little boy. _Who is he?_ Alana had not heard Damien make any mention of a child, though from this picture it was clear that they meant a lot to each other.

She heard voices in the adjoining room, rising and falling dramatically-were they arguing?- but she couldn't distinguish anything they were saying; one of the voices was doubtless the Comte's, however. She tore her eyes away from the happy picture when she heard the door open and the voices grow louder for an instant before being muffled by the closing of the door again. The blonde-haired maid-Alana recognized her from her last visit-was standing there, looking as ill at ease as she had before. At that moment the housekeeper re-entered the room.

"Did you tell them anything?" the woman asked the maid. The girl shook her head solemnly and left the room with the housekeeper, who put a caring arm around her shoulder.

That was a rather odd occurrence, Alana thought, and that combined with the restless voices in the other room were making her feel a bit uneasy herself. She wondered what kind of business was being conducted in there.

Then, the door swung open again, and in walked Damien, who grinned brightly at her. He was followed by…_what was his name?…oh yes, _Raoul.

"Ah! Alana!" Damien was saying. "So kind of you to join me today! You remember my good friend, Vicomte Raoul de Chagny, don't you?"

"Yes of course," Alana said as she and the Vicomte nodded politely to each other.

"I was just discussing the plans for the upcoming ball with him, and giving him and his wife their invitation. I have yours here as well, along with Monsieur Erik's." He drew two envelopes from his jacket pocket and handed them to her.

Alana thought she saw Raoul grimace as she took the pieces of paper. He cleared his throat and said, "I should be getting back to Christine now. Goodbye, Damien. Mademoiselle." He bowed his head slightly, then left the room and disappeared from sight, leaving Alana puzzling after him. Something about the man seemed so off, today. And _Christine_…that was the name of the woman Erik loved, she realized with a shock. But it was a common name, surely it couldn't be the same woman! Could it? Her thoughts raced as she looked down at the envelopes in her hand. Then, she remembered something.

"Oh, Damien, there's something I've been meaning to ask you…"

"Ask and you shall receive," Damien replied cheerfully. "What is it?"

"I don't mean to trouble you, but it's just that…my cousin Cerise…she would _so _love to go to the ball, and I would be glad of her company…"

"You would like me to invite her as well?" he asked, knowingly. "Of course she may come. It's not a problem at all. Madame Giry?" he called out, and the housekeeper soon appeared. "Would you please see that another invitation for the ball be written up for…" He looked back at Alana. "…what is the name again?"

_All this time, sitting just a row across from her, and he still doesn't even know her name. _"Cerise Valjean."

Damien nodded to Madame Giry, and she curtsied and set off to get the invitation made. "Shall we go out to the terrace?" he asked Alana. "It's a wonderful day out." They went outside, where a small glass table with delicately carved chairs had been set up. "I do hope you're hungry," Damien said, as he pulled back Alana's chair. "The chefs have prepared us something delicious, as always," he said as the two portly, mustachioed, white-clad men came out wheeling carts with trays full of food.

The food _was _delicious, and the day was warm and bright, as was Damien's company. Alana found she was having a grand time here, now that his friends were gone. Without their condescendence all around her, she felt almost as if she belonged here, as she and Damien talked about the upcoming ball.

"I haven't told you yet, have I? I've decided it's going to be a fancy dress ball!" he said excitedly. "Everyone dressed up in all manner of costumes!"

"That sounds splendid." Alana had never been to anything like that in all her life. "And do you know…if it's fancy dress…maybe Erik would be willing to come!" The thought made her smile.

"I certainly hope he will," Damien answered. "I understand how he must feel. I've seen what's happened to those who've been disfigured by war injuries, the way some of them want to hide themselves from the world. But at a fancy dress ball, no one will think ill of him for wearing a mask, as you say he does. He'll have no reason to worry about anything like that, no reason at all."

"I'll be sure to tell him," Alana said, feeling hopeful that maybe Erik would decide to come this time.

After they had finished their meal, they retired to the room that they had been in before, and sat in the velvet armchairs as Damien told amusing stories from past celebrations. In a moment when both of them had gone quiet, Alana saw Damien's eyes flash as they moved to the bookshelf. "Strange…I didn't move that photograph."

"That one…oh, I'm sorry, I moved it…I thought it had fallen." Alana looked at the picture. "It's a very nice photograph. Who is that little boy? He's sweet."

"He is, isn't he?" Damien said, wistfully. He had grown sad all of a sudden, with an expression she had never seen on his face before. "That's Avery. My little brother."

"Oh! Is he with your parents in the country? I didn't know you had any siblings."

"I don't." His voice was cold. "Avery was adopted by my parents. He was the child of one of the servants, and his parents died when he was just an infant. He had no family left, and I convinced my parents to take him in, and raise him as their own. I had always wanted a younger brother, and he was more than I could have ever hoped for. I never thought I could love another person as much as I loved that little boy."

Alana thought she could see red in the corner of Damien's eyes, and tears brimming just beneath the surface. She was afraid to repeat the word out loud, but she did. "Loved?"

"He's dead," Damien whispered, looking down at the floor. "It was less than a year ago. But it feels like forever. It's strange, you know. He was the light of my life. I thought he would always be there, and now he's gone." He sighed heavily. "I don't know why it had to be him. Out of all the people. He was so young, so innocent. It was an accident, but no one should ever have to die like that."

"What happened?" Alana asked, fearful of the answer, her voice barely audible.

"He was such a funny little boy," Damien said, "always trying to be just like me, wanting to come with me to all the parties and events. Sometimes I _did _bring him, and all my friends loved him. He was so upset when I had to go out to war, but I promised him that when I came back, we could do anything he wanted to do. I was lucky enough to come home early from the war. And a few nights later, I took Avery to the opera." He almost choked on the words. "I kept telling him he wouldn't like it, but he begged and pleaded, so we bought him some fancy evening clothes and a little top hat for him to wear, just like me. He was so excited."

Alana's throat hurt and she could feel her eyes stinging. She wasn't sure she wanted to hear any more, but she was wrapped up in Damien's story.

"We could have sat in one of the boxes, but Avery wanted to sit on the floor closer to the orchestra and the people on stage, so that's what we did. And then the opera began. Right from the beginning, I knew it wasn't appropriate for someone his age, but at least he was too young to understand what was happening. The opera was called_ Don Juan Triumphant, _you see."

Alana had never heard of it, but she knew the legends about Don Juan, the famous womanizer.

"The first bit wasn't very good, but then the young soprano, Christine Daee, comes on stage and begins to sing…she's Raoul's wife now, you know. She turns the whole thing around. She has the most beautiful voice. Avery loved it. He looked up at me and asked if she was an angel." At that, Alana really began to wonder whether this was the same Christine that Erik had spoken of, but she continued to focus her main attention on Damien. "And then Don Juan joins her on stage. They sing a spectacular song together, it had the whole audience, especially Avery and I, enthralled. And then," he paused, his eyes growing darker. "It turns out that the man playing Don Juan is not the right person. He's a crazed lunatic, an imposter. All of a sudden, he grabs hold of Christine, cuts a line offstage, and disappears with her. That's when it happened." He clenched his fists. "The chandelier fell."

"What?"

Damien had his back to her now; she couldn't see his face as he spoke. "It fell down from the ceiling. Right where Avery and I were sitting. I looked up, saw it falling, and pulled on his arm, getting up and starting to run away. But we were in the middle of the row. There were people in our way, and though everything seemed to be in slow motion, the chandelier fell fast. Then there was a huge crash, and I felt the glass digging into my skin. In terrible pain, I crawled out from under the broken chandelier, and then, everything went up in flames." His voice was trembling as he spoke. "People were running everywhere, screaming, trying to escape the fire. I didn't see Avery, I was panicking, trying to push my way past the glass and flames, screaming his name. I could feel the smoke filling my lungs, the glass in my skin, the blood running down my body. And then a gendarme…I don't know why they were there, but they were…came and dragged me away. I tried to fight him off, I had to find my brother, but I was too weak. I lost consciousness, and woke up in a hospital, my parents and friends standing over me, crying. They said they were so glad that I was alive, but they didn't look happy. All I could think of was my little brother. I asked them where he was, I wanted to see him. But they just shook their heads, and my father told me. 'Avery's dead, son. The madman killed him."

Alana had her hand over her mouth, in shock. She would never have guessed that something so…terrible, so _ghastly_, could ever have happened to a little child, or Damien. She didn't know what to say, but she had to say something. "I'm so, so sorry…" A tear rolled down her cheek.

Damien wiped his eyes with his sleeve. Then he looked sadly back at her. "You know how it feels, don't you? To have someone taken away from you?"

"Yes, I do," she said quietly. "If you're feeling upset and need to speak with someone, I'm here. I understand what it is you're going through. It must be terrible. He was just a child."

Damien nodded slowly, and stood, going to the other side of the room to pour himself a drink. "It _is_ terrible. But I'm finding different ways to cope." He sipped the drink. "Can I get you something?"

"Oh, no, thank you," Alana answered. She was perfectly content with the glass of wine she'd had earlier. "The imposter…the madman…was he caught?"

"No," Damien said bitterly, taking a long drink of what appeared to be some very strong liquor. "But he will be. Soon. There _will_ be justice for Avery."

"I hope so," Alana said.

"Now then," the Comte said, after finishing his drink alarmingly quickly. "Let's think of more pleasant things." He gestured to the window. "There's still plenty of afternoon left, it would be a pity to waste it indoors. Would you like to go for a walk?"

"Yes, I would. I think the fresh air will do us both some good."

Sure enough, after Damien had put on his hat-which always had that funny sideways tilt to it-and they'd stepped outside, Alana felt a change in both of their moods. Neither one of them felt entirely cheerful after Damien's tragic story, but with the bright sun above and the pleasant warmth and beauty all around them, they began to speak and talk of other things as they walked arm in arm down the lane. Other pedestrians stared at them as they passed by; Alana knew it was because she was a newcomer to the neighborhood, and she was not dressed nearly as fine as Damien was. She loved it here, loved being with him, but she couldn't shake the ever-present feeling of being out of place.

They came to a stop in front of a mass of hedges. "This is my favorite part of the entire Parc," Damien told her, grinning. It was good to see him smiling again; sadness did not seem to belong on a face like his. "It's a hedge maze. Would you like to try it?"

Living on a farm outside a small town, Alana had never heard of such a thing. "Yes, I think so! I've never been in one before."

Damien laughed. "The first time Raoul and I tried it, we got hopelessly lost. One of the gardeners had to come and help us find our way out. Not one of our proudest moments, but an amusing diversion nonetheless. Lead the way, Alana. I hope you have a better sense of direction than we do!"

"You're not going to help me?" Alana asked as they began walking through the narrow pathways.

"Possibly, if you get us too lost. But I want you to have the fun of trying to figure it out for yourself."

And so Alana led him through the maze. It was exciting, but incredibly confusing. The hedges were tall and she could see nothing above them. It was hard to know where she'd been, and at first she got them terribly turned around, but then she began to notice little things on the path that were different, or the sharpness of certain turns, and began to find her way. After what seemed like forever, they came into a large garden, with rows and rows of colorful flowers, a fountain with graceful dolphins carved into it, and a little wooden bench beneath two cherry trees.

"Oh," Alana breathed. "It's so pretty. Is this the end?"

"No," Damien said, laughing. "See…on the other side, the maze continues. We actually have quite a ways to go. A nasty trick, isn't it?

Alana's heart sank a little.

"But you've done well. It took Raoul and I much longer to find this place. Would you like to move on, or stay here a while?"

"We could rest here for a while," Alana said absently, taking in all the beauty around her. She had never imagined people could live somewhere where there were places like this.

Damien let go of her arm, and pulled out a few coins from his pocket. He handed one to her, and she hesitated. "Thank you, but what…"

"It's for the fountain," he said. "To make a wish."

"Oh. Thank you." Alana took the coin, and the two of them walked up to the fountain. There were already coins at the bottom of the water, and she wondered how many people had been there before them, just like this. Now, to make a wish. She closed her eyes, and thought for just an instant before she knew. It was foolish. It was probably impossible. But she opened her eyes and dropped the coin into the fountain, wishing with all her heart. Damien tossed his in next.

"May your wish come true," he said as he watched the coin sink.

"And yours," Alana added.

"We shall see." Damien smiled at her, and took his hat off, his eyes drifting across the garden. "Would you like to sit down for a while? Rest before we brave the maze again?"

Alana nodded, and they went to the bench. There were countless lovers' initials carved into the wood, she noticed before she sat down. She took a deep breath of the fresh air and looked out across the garden. This was the most romantic place she'd ever been to. If only _he _were here…

"Alana." Jolted from her daydream, she turned to face Damien, who was sitting close beside her. Their shoulders were almost touching. "I wanted to thank you for coming today."

"It was no trouble at all," she replied. "It's been a nice time."

"It was such a stroke of luck that I met you," Damien continued. "I've lived my life surrounded by friends of all sorts, but I've never met anyone quite like you before. If I'm being completely honest, you're the only one I've really been able to talk to. The others, they can be good company sometimes, but they don't really say anything at all, and they don't know how to listen. You're not like the rest of them, Alana." There was such deep sincerity in his eyes as he spoke. He took her hand in his, and her heart beat faster. "We've only just met, but I feel as though I've known you forever." His eyes were shining, his face close to hers. "Do you know what I mean?"

Alana knew. She nodded, but could not think of the words to say to him.

She didn't have to.

He leaned in closer, and pressed his lips against hers.

It took her by surprise, but she couldn't keep from kissing him back. It was nothing like she thought it would be, but she didn't think she wanted it to end. His arms were around her now, and he was running his fingers through her hair. She could feel his heart racing as fast as hers was. He was so handsome, so good…

She'd never felt so close to someone, so warm, so safe…

But when they finally pulled apart and she took a breath, Alana had a terrible, sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach that said that something about…this…was wrong.

Damien studied her face for a moment, and his countenance fell. "I'm sorry," he said, shaking his head. "I shouldn't have done that." He looked angry with himself. "They've always said I'm too forward, too rash. Now I've gone and upset you, I can see it. I'm sorry."

"It…it's all right," Alana managed to say.

"Is it?" He asked, earnestly. "Is it really?"

"I don't know."

"I'm sorry," he apologized for the third time. "If you wish, we can forget this ever happened. We can just be good friends…a…platonic relationship." For once, he seemed to be having trouble finding what he wanted to say.

"Yes, of course," Alana said. "Don't worry about it." She got to her feet, trying to clear her head. "Shall we find the way out of the maze now?"

It was different, going through the tunnels in the hedge this time. They were both awkwardly quiet, with none of the ease of conversation they'd had just a short while ago. Alana's thoughts were all muddled together in a strange way. She felt sorry for Damien, but she wanted Erik to be with her now, not him, and she was frustrated things were turning out this way, and not the way she knew it should be, but couldn't be. Her whole life was like this maze, she thought, and she didn't know which paths to take.

In the end, Damien had to help her find the way out of the maze; she would have had them lost forever. They headed back to the house, Damien making attempts at small talk, pointing out the sights of the Parc, struggling for words.

When they went through the front door, Madame Giry was in the foyer to meet them. "There's someone here to see you, my lord," she said after a polite curtsy to both him and Alana. "He's in the library."

"Thank you, Madame Giry. I'm sorry, Alana. I must see who's calling. I'll be back soon." Damien nodded to her and went to the library, leaving her with the housekeeper

"I have the other invitation to give to you now," the housekeeper said, handing her Cerise's envelope along with the other two. "The Comte would not want you to forget these."

"Neither would I," Alana said, taking them gladly, though she wondered if things would still feel strange between her and Damien by the time the ball came. "Thank you." She smiled at the housekeeper, and realized that it looked like Madame Giry wanted to tell her something.

"Mademoiselle, I couldn't help but notice the names on these invitations. One for you, Alana Valjean, and another for a man called Erik. Just Erik."

"Oh, do you know him?" Alana wondered.

Madame Giry looked around the room, then said, "Yes, I do. I've known him longer than anyone."

"Really? How fascinating. He's never said anything about you before, I don't think."

"That doesn't surprise me," she said wryly. "But I have heard him speak of you. He says he is giving you…music lessons?"

"Yes. He's an excellent teacher."

"He's not the only one. Having someone to teach music to has given him something to enjoy in life, something he sorely needed. Since he's returned to Paris, I have noticed a change in him…sometimes…he's not like he used to be. You have been a great help to him, Mademoiselle, more than you know. I wanted to thank you for that."

"It's no trouble at all," Alana said, smiling. "He's been a good friend to me, and he deserves no less."

"I am glad he has found a friend like you," Madame Giry said. She had a grace about her, a certain kind of nobility. Alana found it hard to believe she was speaking with a servant. "But I must give you a warning." She looked around the room to make sure no one was listening. "Do not speak of him to others, and take great care that no one sees him with you when he comes at night."

_What?_ Alana didn't understand. "But why?" she whispered.

"Monsieur Erik has a great many enemies…" the woman suddenly stopped talking, and then Damien came walking through the doors.

"Ah! I see you've got the invitations. Excellent." Damien seemed to have recovered from the awkwardness of the previous situation, and was all cheerfulness again. His gaze turned to the window and Alana followed it. Above the front garden, ugly black clouds had begun to form in the distant sky. "It looks like rain," he said. "We should be heading back to Sacree Boulevard, I think. Wouldn't want to be caught in that downpour."

Alana glanced at the clock on the wall. It was nearly five-thirty, and she was rather eager to go home. She had had about all she could handle for one day, what with terribly sad stories and Damien's unexpected advances. She nodded. "It does look quite nasty," she replied.

So Damien summoned the carriage, and they set off for Sacree Boulevard. After stepping outside, Alana felt a sudden chill in the air, and a strong wind picking up that sent her hair blowing across her face. The afternoon smelled of rain.

The carriage ride back home was pleasant; Damien was making conversation easily again, and they talked and laughed the entire way. Alana almost forgot what had happened earlier in the garden…the Comte just had a way of making you forget everything else around you. His warm, energetic presence seemed to fill a room, and now he bore no resemblance whatsoever to the man who had stood with his back to her, so she wouldn't see him cry as he told the story of how his little brother had been taken from him so tragically.

When they had pulled in front of the Valjean's house, Damien escorted her out of the carriage and to the door. A light rain had started to fall, and it was clear that any minute there would be a torrential downpour. Cerise answered the door, and blushed to see Damien standing on their doorstep.

"Good evening, Monsieur Comte," she said, curtsying and smiling adoringly at him.

"Good evening, Mademoiselle Valjean. I hope you and your cousin have a pleasant rest of the day. Oh! And I also hope to see you both at the ball at my chateau in a few weeks! Alana here has your invitation."

"Oh, I'd be delighted to come!" Cerise said excitedly, taking the envelope from Alana.

"Wonderful," Damien said, flashing a brilliant smile Cerise's way. Alana hoped her cousin wouldn't swoon. "I'll see you both soon, then. Until next time." He tipped his hat to them, and went back into the carriage.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Damien watched as the heavens opened and the rain fell down in torrents. He could hardly see through the windows, and the carriage had slowed down considerably. Henri probably couldn't see a thing either, and he and the horse must be getting soaked to the bone. He'd have to make sure he gave Henri a tip and that they both got a nice long rest after getting him through this weather, while he stayed inside the carriage high and dry. He really was a lucky man. But he didn't feel like one.

He felt sick to his stomach. This had been one of the hardest days he'd had in a long time. Seeing that picture of him and Avery, not to mention telling Alana the whole wretched tale, had been hell. And he'd blown it with her in the hedge maze too. She'd kissed him back, but he could tell in her eyes when it was over that he'd made a mistake.

He clenched his fist. He knew what the problem was. She was probably in love with her precious "music teacher," just a deluded freak of an outcast who was up to his old tricks again. Well Alana was one girl he wouldn't be dragging off to marry him. Once she learned who her teacher truly was and what he'd done, Damien knew she'd come running to him. That was the one hope he had at the moment; she was a welcome distraction from all the dark days full of plotting his vengeance and drowning his sorrows in drink. And yet, she had been, and still was instrumental in that plot for revenge…without her, he would inevitably fail.

Damien pulled something out of the deepest pocket of his jacket. He gazed at his reflection in the silver plating of the revolver, cold and gray. He hadn't used the gun since he'd been allowed to go home from the war, but he'd kept it close to him ever since Avery died. Because there was still a war going on. The madman's time was ticking away. When he found the Phantom of the Opera, he would shoot him. And kill him.


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter Twenty-two

"Now, you just lay down and rest, my lord, and everything will be all right-Meg my dear, would you please take his shoes off? He can't sleep in those." Earlier, Madame Giry, Meg, and Celine, another one of the maids, hadn't been able to find the Comte de Bellamy, until at last they'd discovered him in his library, passed out facedown on his desk. From his hand, a glass had fallen and lay in pieces on the desk in a pool of Chartreuse.

"No…no it won't be," Damien slurred, so drunk he was barely conscious. "He's gone…Av-Avery's gone."

"He's in a better place, my lord," Madame Giry tried to reassure him, patting his shoulder gently.

"He's gone…and, and _he _killed him!" He shouted, lifting a finger and pointing to the row of wanted posters on the wall opposite his bed. The posters, bearing a likeness all too familiar to Antoinette, were slashed with knives or punctured with darts. _If only he knew that the Phantom was living under his own roof._ Damien tried to get up but she and the others held him down, with a chorus of "It's all right, my lord"'s.

"He killed him," Damien muttered, "and she doesn't love me."

_What?_ That was not something Antoinette had ever heard her master say during on of his occasional alcohol-induced rants.

"She d-doesn't love me…and she won't…'cause of _him_." He practically spat the word, his face a sickly complexion.

"Please, Master Damien. Please try to rest. Everything will be better in the morning," Meg said, her brown eyes full of concern.

"It'll…it'll be better…when he's dead…"

Meg shot her mother a fearful glance, but Antoinette's emotions were carefully hidden. She had learned to keep her feelings under control many years ago; it had been necessary to protect Erik.

"Shh," Madame Giry hushed. "Sleep, my lord."

They watched as exhaustion overcame the Comte, and he closed his eyes and fell into a drunken slumber. The three of them tiptoed quietly out of the room, Antoinette and Meg parting ways with Celine, who had a few more duties to attend to. They walked quickly through the halls and down the flights of stairs to the servants' quarters, making sure that no one saw them until they were safe behind the doors of their apartment.

"Poor Master Damien," Meg said sadly as she shut the door behind them. "He's such a kind man…I hate to see him like that."

"So do I," Antoinette agreed.

"Who are you talking about?" Erik was sitting at the table writing something, as usual, and had looked up as they came in.

"Our master," Madame Giry said. "He isn't at all well tonight."

Erik scowled. "You shouldn't call him that. You two are not servants, you're dancers, and you shouldn't even have to work for him."

"He's a good man, Erik. For the most part he's pleasant to work for, except in moments like these."

"Oh? What's wrong with the man?"

"Drunk." Was Meg's blunt reply. "He tends to get…upset." Antoinette noticed that her daughter still had trouble meeting Erik's gaze, and wondered if Meg would ever feel comfortable around him.

"Shame. The girl I'm teaching, her father…he's like that. And that's why she's here in Paris now."

"Oh, yes, Erik. That reminds me of something I wanted to talk to you about." Antoinette took a deep breath. "It's about Christine."

She saw his face harden. This wasn't going to be easy.

"You've gone to see her, haven't you?"

"Yes." Erik put his hand protectively over what he had written on the paper before him. _It must be a letter to Christine. _

"Have you spoken with her?"

Erik looked at the floor, and shook his head miserably.

"Good." His head shot up sharply and he glared at her, but she continued. "Please, Erik, let her and Raoul be."

"Let them be? Why should I? The Vicomte should have let _us _be!" His voice shook with emotion. "I loved her…I always did…I still do."

"But there is more to it than just love. You're obsessed, Erik."

His fists were clenched and his eyes were blazing.

"I can see it on your face. You're not you when you're thinking of her."

"Then who am I?" he shouted. "I am always thinking of her! She completes me, Antoinette! I need her!"

"No, you don't." She knew reasoning with him would be impossible, but she had to try. "She is not good for you. You're not meant to be."

"We have to be," Erik whispered.

"Listen to me!" Meg suddenly interjected. "You can't go running off to Christine every night! There are soldiers and gendarmes everywhere in this city, looking for _you._ And there's countless civilians hunting for you too, after the reward money. But did you know that there are people out there who are offering even more than the government has promised to pay? And do you know who those people are? I'll tell you! One of them is the Vicomte de Chagny, and the other is the master of this house!"

Antoinette was proud of her daughter; despite the circumstances, she had always been brave and now was no exception. Erik looked taken aback, but she could tell he was still angry and not ready to back down.

"Yes, so there are people after me. I was already aware of that."

"You have to be careful!" Meg said. "What if Raoul sees you when you go to visit Christine? They're married, they live under the same roof! And believe me, he won't hesitate to kill you."

Erik just gave a single, bitter laugh. "That fool? He doesn't frighten me."

"Don't underestimate him, Erik," Madame Giry warned. "He has more influence than you know. And if you're caught, you'll go to prison, and probably end up at the gallows!" She paused. "And so will Meg and I, for helping you."

"I won't get caught, and neither will you," Erik said through his teeth.

"That's not all I'm concerned about. I'm worried about _you._ Your heart. When you first came back to Paris I saw a change in you. Something was different. Something good. But now that you've found Christine again, you're just like you were the night after _Il Muto._"

Erik was silent, but she could see he was seething with anger.

"If you continue to pursue Christine, I can promise you that nothing good will come out of it. You'll only hurt yourself, and maybe others too. You've endured more suffering than anyone I've ever known…why would you want to risk bringing more pain down on yourself?"

"Because," Erik said slowly, "I love her."

"But she doesn't love you!" Antoinette snapped, suddenly angry. "She has a husband and she loves _him! _Why can't you just accept that and move on? For all our sakes!"

"Because it's wrong!" he shouted, standing up and towering over her. "I'm the one who found her, I'm the one who taught her, I'm the one who loved her first! Who loved her more! She belongs with me!"

"Oh? Then why did she choose to leave with the Vicomte?" She knew her words were hurting him, but they had to be said.

"I don't know!" His voice dropped to a whisper. "I don't know. I thought she…I thought she was coming back." His hands went to the ring on the chain around his neck, and Antoinette's eyes stung a little. It hurt to see him in pain like this.

"But she didn't."

"Who's to say she won't change her mind?" He said icily.

"Who's to say she will? You always say, no one would listen but her, but maybe if you would just open your eyes, you'd see that's not the case!" Erik looked at her quizzically, but she kept speaking. "Christine Daae got her happy ending! Now it's time for you to find yours!"

"Stay out of my life!" Erik growled. "You speak of happy endings, and relationships! What do you know? _Your husband left you for another woman_!"

Her heart felt like it was going to burst, and her eyes stung with tears. Meg was staring at Erik with an expression of horror and anger and sadness, as he took the letter he'd been writing and put on his black cloak and hood.

"Where…where are you going?" Antoinette struggled to get the words out.

"To see Alana. I'm going to be late for our lesson thanks to you." He stormed out of the room into the empty hallway, and made his escape.

When he had gone, Meg pulled her mother into her arms. "Oh, Maman. Don't listen to him." She held her even tighter. "He's being so awful. We should just turn him in to Master Damien. He deserves it."

"No, my love!" Antoinette cried, her voice tinged with desperation. She pulled away and wiped her eyes. "You can't! He's like a brother to me! I love him, I do. I always have."

"How can you love him when he acts so terribly?"

"Because someone has to." She pushed back a new flood of tears as she remembered the night she first saw Erik, saw him beaten, and mocked by everyone at the traveling fair. "No one deserves to suffer like he has. I know what he's going through…he was right, what he said about your father…"

"Oh, no, Maman!"

She changed the subject. "Someone's got to help Erik. Heaven knows I've been trying for years."

"I don't think you can help him this time," her daughter said gravely.

Antoinette shook her head. "No. Perhaps not. But maybe, there is someone who can."


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter Twenty-three

"Again!" Erik said angrily, shaking his head and folding his arms.

Alana looked away in a combination of shame and frustration. She couldn't do it. She couldn't sing this part of the song without making any mistakes. For once, Erik wasn't helping; there was something strange about his presence today. He was unusually gloomy and had never been so cross with her during a lesson.

"Sing it again!" He commanded.

She shot him an angry glance. "Don't tell me what to do."

He smirked. "I'm your teacher. What else am I supposed to do?"

"Well, you could be a little nicer about it."

He let out a sigh. "You're right. I…apologize."

"Apology accepted," Alana said, a smile spreading across her face as she realized she'd won. Something was clearly bothering him though, and that troubled her.

"We've done enough for tonight, I suppose. Tomorrow, before we meet again for our lesson, I want you to keep practicing these songs vocally and on the piano. I hope you will give a better performance tomorrow evening, especially if you plan on singing in the choir here."

His words stung a little, but she already knew she hadn't done well at all. "I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I know I've disappointed you…but I couldn't help it! There's something off about you today…I could see it and it was making me nervous. What's wrong?"

Erik sighed again. "I've had better days."

"So have I."

"What happened to you?"

Alana wasn't sure she wanted to tell him about what had happened between her and Damien. "Nothing worth mentioning. But waiting for that letter from Madame Marguerite is eating me alive." Whenever she had a spare moment, she paced the floor, willing it to come sooner. "Something's eating at you, too. What is it?"

"I don't want to talk about it," Erik said, unfolding his arms and looking at one of the stained glass windows with a pained expression on his face.

"It's all right. I understand. But wait! I have something that might make you feel better! At least, I hope it does." She took the little envelope from the stack of papers she had brought with her and handed it to Erik.

"What is it?" he asked, confused.

"Open it and see." Alana grinned, hoping with all her heart that he would like what he found.

Erik opened the envelope and took out the invitation, scanning the page. "A ball?"

"Yes, to celebrate the Comte's birthday." As she spoke the words she saw his eyes darken mysteriously, and her heart sank. "Oh, please come! It will be so much fun. And it's fancy dress, so you can come and wear your mask and no one will think anything of it! You'll fit right in."

"I highly doubt that," Erik said. "I've…I've never been to a ball before. At least...I've never actually been invited to one."

"Neither have I," Alana confessed. "It would be something new for both of us."

Erik looked over the invitation again and again. "I don't even know how to dance," he said miserably. "Not real dances like people do at balls. I'll only make a fool of myself."

"I don't really know how to dance, either." Alana was determined to win him over. He was coming to the ball whether he liked it or not. It would be good for him. "We can learn. Or both make fools of ourselves," she added with a laugh.

He looked up at her, his expression unreadable.

"Please," she begged.

A sigh. "Very well."

"Yes!" She exclaimed, beaming.

"But only if," Erik said, holding up a finger, "you play and sing better tomorrow evening than you did tonight. If you pass my test, then I will accept the invitation, and get to work on our costumes for the ball."

"Oh, will you?" Alana was so happy she felt she could burst. "Thank you so much! I didn't think you would come! I'm so glad you are, and I'll do better, I promise!"

He smiled slightly at her enthusiasm. "Good. You should run along now, Alana. It's getting late, and I have something I must do before the night is over."

They parted ways outside the church, and Alana quickly made her way across the street and into the house. When she reached her room, she fell asleep the moment her head hit the pillow. It had been a long day and she was exhausted, but not too tired to dream. All night long she dreamt of walking through a maze, with many different paths. She couldn't find her way out, and at one point she realized that she didn't even know what she was looking for anymore. Then she dreamt of scores and scores of letters, with thousands of different answers written upon them, and she didn't know which ones were true and which were lies.

The letter came in the morning.

It was waiting for Alana in front of her plate at breakfast. She sat down in her chair; a chill fell over the room as her aunt, uncle, and cousin looked at her expectantly.

"She'll probably say that everything's just fine back in Détente," Cerise said nervously in an attempt to break the uncomfortable silence, but she was promptly hushed by her mother.

Alana took a deep breath and tore open the envelope, unfolding the piece of paper and daring to read the words.

_Dear Alana:_

_Words cannot express how happy I am for you; you made the right choice in leaving Détente, though Jean-Paul and all the customers and I miss you terribly. I pray you are safe and happy in Paris, and it breaks my heart that I must bring you this terrible news. Your father Andre's temper seems to have worsened in your absence, and though we tried to spread the word to everyone that he must not be sold or given any alcohol, Monsieur Silvain, not surprisingly, was more than happy to exchange some whiskey for Andre's money_. _But your father soon ran out of money, and chaos ensued when Silvain tried to remove him from the establishment. Silvain is now at home with a broken arm, sprained ankle, and two black eyes. Several of the other bar visitors left with injuries as well. I regret to inform you that your father is now being held in the town jail, and has been extremely uncooperative with the police. You, and the relatives you're staying with, must come to Détente and figure out what needs to be done, the sooner the better. Meanwhile, all of us here in town are keeping you, and Andre, in our prayers. _

_Godspeed,_

_Marguerite._

"Well? What does it say?" Raimond asked, looking uneasy.

Alana's stomach was turning wildly. She felt like she was going to be sick. She couldn't find the words to speak, so she handed the letter over to her uncle, who read it quickly.

He shook his head sadly. "Oh, Andre."

"What is it?" Amélie asked.

"He's been thrown in jail," he said, frustration clearly in his voice as he handed the letter to his wife. "Read and see." Cerise leaned closer, reading over her mother's shoulder.

"Oh no," Alana's aunt said, bringing up her hand to cover her mouth. "This is terrible!"

"We must leave immediately for Détente."

"But what about Sunday's sermon? What if you're not back in time?" Amélie interjected.

"One of the elders can speak in my place," Raimond said. "We have to go and help my half-brother."

"But what can we do?" Alana asked, despairingly. "Is there any way we can help him?"

"Of course," Raimond said. "There's always hope. Now, everyone, finish your breakfast, quickly. We'll start packing as soon as we're done here."

Alana picked at the eggs on her plate. All of a sudden they seemed absolutely repulsive. "I don't think I can eat anything."

"Please try," her uncle urged. "You're going to need all the strength you can get."

He was right about that. Alana forced the food down her throat, trying not to gag. The contents of the letter were exactly what she had feared. It seemed like God was playing a cruel joke on her; surely this couldn't be happening. Her father…in prison.

He needed her. Now more than ever. She couldn't abandon him. She finished her breakfast in a hurry and ran upstairs to pack what little she had for the journey back home, though it didn't really feel like home anymore. Suddenly her thoughts went to Erik. She couldn't just disappear without telling him where she'd gone. Quickly, she took a pen to paper and scrawled a note to him describing what had happened. She left the note hanging on a loose nail on the church doors, desperately wishing he could come as well, but knowing there was no time to hunt him down now.

Soon everyone was packed and ready, and they loaded the small carriage and hitched up the horse. They set off on the long drive to Détente, the sun invisible beyond the unmoving layers of gray clouds.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Erik tore the note off the door and read the words Alana had written. She was going back for her father…if they got him out of prison, what would happen? What if he tried to hurt her again? The thought gave him a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He wished he could have gone with her, but at least she wouldn't be alone. She had her aunt and uncle and cousin with her.

He looked up at the moon, dark clouds drifting past it. Where was his family? Surely he had to have had cousins, aunts, uncles, perhaps even grandparents, out there somewhere…but he hadn't met a single one of them. Not even his own father. He wondered if they even knew he existed.

Erik folded Alana's note and put it in one of his pockets, sending a silent prayer up to Heaven for her. Maybe the Almighty God didn't care about him, but He would surely care for Alana.

He hurried into the nearest alley at the sound of soldiers' voices and horses' hooves coming down the dark street, and once they had passed, he made his way to the Vicomte de Chagny's…to Christine's.

When he stood in front of the giant iron fence that surrounded their home like prison walls, he could feel his heart racing. Erik couldn't remember a time when he had felt so anxious. There was so much riding on what happened tonight. Nothing in the entire world mattered more.

He clenched his fists and stared determinedly at the iron gate. These walls couldn't keep him out. They couldn't keep Christine in either.

_What are you even afraid of? _a voice in his head asked him. _You're the Phantom. You always get what you want._

Self-doubt nagged at him, but he pushed the thoughts back. He was intelligent, he was strong, and he was confident. He had no reason to fear; he believed in himself. He would succeed.

Tonight would be the night he got his life back.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Christine lay in the enormous bed alone, tossing and turning. Raoul was out late again, probably talking or drinking with Damien as he often did. If he didn't come home soon, he might not come home at all. She'd be all right, but the mansion did seem so large and empty without him there. Lonely. Eventually she gave up sleep and put on her dressing gown.

She went down the hall to the room where she'd stayed before she and Raoul were married. Christine had been spending a lot of time there lately, especially those many nights when she couldn't sleep. The room had a balcony overlooking the gardens, a stunning view.

It would have been better had it not been marred by the ugliness of the iron fence. Raoul had had it put up shortly after they'd been married to keep out intruders, he'd said. Though from the beginning she knew it was more specific than that. She knew who he wanted to keep out.

When she entered the room, her gaze immediately fell upon the rose that lay on the end table by the French doors leading outside. She'd found it on the balcony last night, with a black ribbon tied around the stem, which was carefully trimmed of thorns so she wouldn't cut her fingers when she held it. She knew who had left it there. He had left a little love letter with the rose as well; the thought of him both thrilled her and terrified her.

Christine knelt on the floor by the bed and pulled out a large box from beneath it. She took a deep breath, and opened it. There, inside, was her wedding dress.

Not the one with the incredibly long train, a dress studded with diamonds, so expensive it could have fed some poor village full of starving children for months. The one she'd worn for her wedding. She'd loved that dress. But this one was different. It was simpler, but just as beautiful, she thought. It had been made just for her.

A chill went up her spine as she looked at the gown. Just thinking about it, and the one who had made it, was unnerving, and yet…she loved this dress. She took it out of its box and stood up, holding the dress up to herself in the mirror. Raoul thought she'd gotten rid of it long ago, but she'd had it cleaned and hidden under the bed in her old room. For some reason she couldn't bring herself to part with it.

As she looked at the gown, she had a sudden urge to put it on, and she didn't know why. _I'll just put it on for a moment…I've forgotten how it looks on me, _she convinced herself.

Moments later, as she gazed at her white-clad reflection in the mirror, her mind was flooded with memories... when she'd first seen the dress, when she'd finally worn it. They weren't good memories, and yet she felt a pang of sadness as she recalled the days and nights of her old life.

_I'm happy now, _Christine willed herself to believe. _I have everything I ever wanted. _

Or did she?

She pushed back sudden tears she didn't quite understand. She didn't know what she wanted…she'd never known.

Christine turned to glance out the window, and her heart stopped. She backed up a few steps, a gasp escaping from her lips as she brought her hand to her mouth to keep from screaming.

There was someone out on the balcony.


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter Twenty-four

No, it couldn't be him. She was only seeing things.

He was moving forward, and then he was opening the doors and stepping through into the room.

_He's here, the Phantom of the Opera. _

Those beautiful haunted eyes were fixed solely upon her. Christine's heart was racing wildly, she felt weak in the knees, her head felt full of nothing but air.

He was walking slowly towards her, and she was backing away until she hit the wall.

Nowhere to run, nothing she could do…no point in fighting…

_Sing once again with me…let the dream begin…now you cannot ever be free!…your chains are still mine, you belong to me!…lead me, save me from my solitude…Christine, I love you…_

Every word he'd said, every memory she had of him, all flooded madly into her head at once. She could feel herself trembling all over.

He'd stopped, and was standing just a few feet away from her.

She couldn't breathe.

Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. He brought up his hand ever so slowly, reaching out to her. His lips parted, and he said,

"Christine."

Then the whole world went dark.

Christine opened her eyes. She was lying on the bed in her old room. It had all been a dream. She glanced down at herself, and saw that she was still wearing that first wedding dress, the one _he_ had given her. Then she looked to her right.

There he was, kneeling by her bedside, watching her.

She gasped and jumped back, quickly moving to the other side of the bed.

"Don't be afraid," he said softly. His voice was like velvet. She'd almost forgotten how wonderful it sounded. And how dangerous.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, barely able to get the words out as her heart seemed to pound out of her chest. She desperately tried to understand what was happening…he was here, it was all real, and she'd fainted…

He got to his feet and looked across the room. "I see you've found what I left for you," motioning to the letters and the single red rose.

"Yes, I found them. Now please, tell me, why are you here?"

He turned his gaze on her, and this time, she looked him straight in the eyes without faltering. He was no ghost or magical being; he was just a man, every bit as human as herself, and she knew it better than anyone. He was not as strong as everyone thought... but still, he could be dangerous. She stared back at him, trying not to flinch as his eyes seemed to burn straight through her. How did he do that?

"Why do you think?" he asked her.

"I…I don't know…how did you get in?"

"I'm me." Oh, yes he was. Every trace of that weak, sad, desperate man she'd left behind in the Paris underground was gone, and now he looked as dashing and mysterious as he had the first night she'd seen him. "Come now, did you really think those iron walls could keep me out?"

"No…but…I thought you were gone. I didn't think you'd really come back."

"Neither did I." His eyes shone with longing.

Christine got off of the bed and left the room. She needed fresh air, and a few moments to think, to sort everything out in her head. There were so many questions running through her mind…where he had been, what he had been doing…what he planned to do now.

"Christine?" He had followed her out.

She turned her head. "Yes?"

"Why are you wearing that dress?"

She looked down at the familiar white silk gown, her cheeks warming a little. "I…I don't know." Why _had _she put it on?…it was almost as if she had hoped something like this would happen. It was like, as she'd put on the wedding dress, she had dreamed him into existence.

"You look even more beautiful than I remember," he said quietly.

Christine felt a pang of sadness. She looked down at the ground. "Thank you."

She could feel him, close behind her, and then she felt his arms go around her waist. A part of her screamed to make him stop, and leave her, and yet at the same time another part of her was at peace, and longed for him to stay. And so she stood there, letting him stay as he was. It had seemed so long since she'd been with him, since he'd held her like this. _This is wrong. Everything about this is so wrong._

"Have you missed me at all, my angel?" He whispered in her ear. She could feel his breath on her neck, and his strong arms were wrapped around her tightly. The wiser part of her seemed to have gone, and she felt herself falling under his spell.

"Yes," she whispered back. He said nothing, but his grip on her waist loosened and she turned around to look at him. He put one hand on her shoulder, and with the other he softly touched her face, smiling at her. Christine had seen him smile, once, long ago…she'd forgotten how beautiful he could be. She could feel his joy as he looked at her now.

"Come away with me."

Her heart was skipping beats as it raced wildly, out of control. Run away with him…away from this new world of aristocracy, where she always had to make-believe she was something she was not. His world, strange though it was, was more real than this one would ever be. She didn't belong here. She would run with him, away from it all…away from…_Raoul?_

No, she couldn't leave Raoul, she loved him. He loved her. Raoul had saved her from the man who stood here now, a man who had tried to kill her childhood sweetheart and steal her away forever, to keep her from the true world. A man who had blood on his hands. How many people had he murdered? She looked back at him, her eyes full of fear.

"Please, Christine." His eyes pleaded desperately with her. "Please. I love you."

Her heart was breaking. He so wanted to be loved, and she so wanted to be the one to love him, and she was trying, but finding she could not. She stepped back from him. "I can't."

After a few moments had passed she dared to look at him. The half of his face not hidden by the mask bore the most forlorn, despaired expression she had ever seen.

"I'm sorry," she burst out, her eyes stinging with tears. "I've chosen my own path. My place is here, with Raoul."

He looked as if she'd stabbed him with a knife. Christine felt like a murderer herself.

"We're not meant to be, you and I."

He stood there speechless, and she tried to keep from sobbing uncontrollably. She couldn't bear to see his face anymore.

"I never wanted to hurt you," she said, covering her face with her hands. "Why does this have to be so complicated?" She had feelings for him, she truly did, but they were _wrong. _She was married to Raoul, she loved him, and she didn't understand what she felt for…her old teacher. "I just wish this would all go away." She opened her eyes and looked over at him.

The man still stood there, unmoving. But now, tears were running down his face, down his mask.

Christine put her hands on his shoulders. "You should go now."

He stepped back slowly, unsteadily, like a dead man walking.

"It never would have worked between us," she wept. "Please, forgive me."

Suddenly she heard a sound like a door slamming.

"What the hell are _you _doing here?"

Raoul's voice. Both of them spun around. Christine hadn't expected him home so late…

Her husband was running towards them, pulling something out of his jacket. She caught a glimpse of something metal, and her former teacher running across the balcony. He jumped up on the edge of the railing. Raoul burst through the doors, brandishing a revolver.

The other man leapt off the railing. Raoul fired the gun, the loud crack shattering the night's silence. Christine screamed.

But the Phantom was unharmed and out of sight. He was in the tree somewhere…no, somehow he was already dashing across the garden, making for the back gate.

Christine heard Raoul curse, and then he shouted out, "Leo! Wendel!"

She heard them before she saw them; their deafening barks filled the night air. The two giant mastiffs were barreling across the garden, their teeth bared and their gaze fixed upon the intruder.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

There wasn't time to escape. Erik stopped running and pulled out his sword. He didn't want to hurt the guard dogs…he'd always had a love for animals, who, unlike people, had always trusted him, never feared his face. But these dogs were trained to kill, and now they had their sights set on him. He turned to face the enormous creatures that were charging straight for him. One of them, a great dark-colored dog, leapt at him, teeth bared, but Erik sent his sword slicing across the dog's back. The mastiff yelped in pain and stepped back for a moment as the other dog attacked. This one was larger and even more ferocious. And suddenly both of them were lunging at him. He tried frantically to avoid their gigantic jaws, and sent them dodging with slashes from his sword. But they were faster and even more powerful than he'd imagined.

Then he felt the teeth sinking like a set of knives into his leg. Erik gasped with pain and staggered back, sending the dog running away with a blow from his sword. But the other leapt at him, crashing into his body with all its might. He heard the dog snarling as they fell to the grass, and from somewhere he thought he heard a distant scream.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Christine covered her mouth in horror as she watched the enormous brute of a mastiff knocking her former teacher to the ground. The man was pinned, his sword fallen on the ground. Wendel had retreated to lick his wounds, but the Phantom was wrestling wildly with the other, using nothing but his bare hands. In a spectacular display of strength he threw the giant mastiff off of him, and scrambled for his sword. But Leo was fast, and almost immediately he had pinned the man again.

Then she saw it. The dog sunk his teeth into the Phantom's shoulder and pulled away, black face covered in blood. And then Wendel was charging back into the action, and she saw him mauling her former teacher. She screamed. He would be torn to pieces any moment. They'd kill him.

"Please, Raoul!" she ran to her husband, grabbing him tightly by the shoulders. "Please, make them stop! I can't bear it! Oh please, make them stop!" she cried, her voice shaking with desperate panic.

Raoul looked hatefully at the scene unfolding below, then gazed into her frightened eyes. His expression softened, and he ran to the balcony's edge and shouted, "Wendel! Leo! Enough!"

Immediately the dogs pulled away from the broken body below them, and looked up obediently at their master.

"Good dogs. Come to the door now." Raoul turned to Christine. "All the servants should be awake now. Get them to help you find bandages and things to clean the dogs' wounds with. The valet and I will get _him."_

"Oh, don't kill him!" Christine begged. "Let him live!"

"He may already be dead, Christine," her husband said evenly. "But if he's alive, he'll be in the law's hands soon."

Several of the maids rushed into the room, and Raoul barked out instructions to them. They pulled Christine along with them in a rush to send for the police and help tend the wounds of the heroic dogs who had saved their beloved Vicomtesse from the madman that had come back for her. She ran with them in a daze, half glad she had escaped him at last and that her life would return to normalcy. But the other half of her heart broke for him, for the despair she had caused him. She hated him…she cared about him? She didn't even know. Nevertheless, she sent up a prayer for him, that whether he lived or died, that his pain would finally be ended.

Raoul and his valet, Claude, rushed through the house. The Vicomte flung open the doors to the back garden and charged toward the place where Leo and Wendel had pinned the lunatic. He had been strong, but he would be no match for them now. He ran past the fountain and took a shortcut through the grove of cherry trees, and stopped dead in his tracks.

"What is it monsieur?" Claude asked, mopping his brow and attempting to catch his breath.

"He's gone," Raoul whispered. He turned to face the other man. "He's gone!" he shouted. "How could he be gone?"

Claude shrugged helplessly, and Raoul cursed, kicking over a stone statuette of a horse. He gave a shout at the sudden pain in his foot and let a few more obscenities slip. It was a stupid statue. He was stupid. He shouldn't have listened to Christine; he should have let his guard dogs tear the awful man to pieces. No one who tried to steal what was his should be able to get away with it, and yet, here he was, looking in utter confusion and helpless rage at the empty place where the Phantom should have been lying dead.

"Send for the police, Claude," he said through his teeth. "Send for all my people. Let the army know too. I want everyone in this city after him. This time, he won't be able to escape."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Erik staggered down the forest path, limping and nearly falling to the ground with every agonizing step. Pain shot through his leg and shoulder, chest and stomach, everywhere the dogs' teeth had left their mark. He could feel the blood starting to soak through his clothes. But worse than any of the pain from his physical wounds was the blow Christine had delivered straight to his heart. The weight of her rejection was unbearable. He hadn't been able to react when she'd said, "_You should go."_ He still couldn't react to it. Now, he couldn't even cry.

Gazing across the forest path, Erik tried to remember where he was going…the apartment, to find Madame Giry…which way was it again? Somehow he'd forgotten. He felt light-headed, and there was a throbbing pain in his skull in addition to the wounds from being mauled by the dogs. Still, he had to press on. Sooner or later he'd find the house. But each step was becoming more and more labored.

Finally, his injured leg gave way and he collapsed into a pile of dead leaves. He gasped with pain and brought up his torn cloak, pressing it into the more severe wounds he'd received to his shoulder and chest, trying to stop the bleeding. He lay there looking up at the night sky in stunned silence, so broken in body and heart that he did not know what to do.

Christine had refused him again, and the Vicomte had almost let him die just now. Erik knew that he could never go back…what had existed between him and Christine was over now, forever.

And so was his life.

She was the only thing he had ever truly wanted.

Now what did he have to live for?

Maybe he didn't want to make it back to the apartment.

At last Erik gave up the fight and let his heavy eyelids slowly close as he drifted off, escaping from the crushing despair and overwhelming pain.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

It was early the next morning when the Vicomte de Chagny burst through the front doors of the Bellamy house and rushed up the stairs without waiting for any of the staff to receive him. He ran through the halls until he reached the door to Damien's bedroom.

"Damien! Damien! Open the door!" he shouted, pounding furiously on the door. There was no answer, so he kept knocking loudly on the door. He'd break it down if he had to. Finally, the door opened, and there was the Comte, with half-open, bloodshot eyes and disheveled hair, still wearing his clothes from the day before, all wrinkled.

Damien groaned, blinking in the light of the hallway. "What's so blasted important that you had to come here at this ungodly hour?" he growled, bringing a hand to his head and running his fingers through his hair.

"You wouldn't believe what happened last night," Raoul began.

"Come inside," Damien muttered. "My head's killing me, I need to lie back down."

"Too much cognac again?" Raoul asked as he walked past his friend.

Damien shook his head, wincing at the pain in his head. "No, it was Chartreuse. I think."

"Well, I have some news that just might help you quit your drinking habit," the Victomte announced as Damien threw himself back down onto his enormous bed.

"Oh really, what's that?" the other man asked nonchalantly.

"Christine had a visitor last night."

Damien rolled his eyes. "So?"

"Not just any visitor. It was _him._" Raoul watched as his friend's eyes grew wide.

"What?"

"I think he was trying to get Christine to run away with him, but I came back just in time to catch him in the act."

"Well what happened?" Damien asked intently.

"I shot at him, but I missed." Raoul glowered at the Comte, who made no effort to hide his snicker at that bit of information. "Then he jumped off our balcony, and I set the dogs on him."

"You did what?" Damien scowled. "This isn't how I wanted it to happen at all."

"Before you say anything else, you should know that the dogs didn't kill him. I called them off."

"What? Why?"

Raoul looked away awkwardly. "Christine begged me to." He ignored Damien's groan of irritation. "They hurt him, badly. Claude and I went down to get him and deliver him to the police, but by the time we got down to the garden, he'd disappeared."

"He's good at that. So what now?"

The Vicomte shrugged. "This entire city is crawling with police and soldiers now, looking for any sign of him. He can't have gotten far…they'll find him. Soon he'll be brought to justice, I can promise you that, my friend. Now, will you get yourself together and help me hunt for him?"

Damien's only reply was a silent nod, and a dark stare.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Madame Giry had heard enough. She hurried out of the hall and down the stairs as fast as she could without drawing too much attention to herself. Her heart was pounding from the things she had just heard spoken. She went through the back door unnoticed and quickly began making her way across the neighborhood, determined to find Erik before anyone else did.


	25. Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Madame Giry walked quickly down the street, as fast as she could without drawing too much attention to herself, trying not to make eye contact with the groups of soldiers and gendarmes passing by her. They were on horseback, or on foot, and they were heavily armed. The news had gotten out fast: the most wanted man in Paris had been seen in Parc de Seigneurs, and he had once again attempted to abduct Madame Christine de Chagny.

Her eyes darted about, looking every which way, searching for any sign that might help her find Erik before it was too late. Her heart was racing. She couldn't let him be captured. She couldn't let him die.

She was approaching the Chagny house now. The gates were opened, revealing a swarm of law enforcement officers in the garden in front of the house, talking amongst themselves or investigating the grounds. Several well-dressed passersby had stopped in their morning walks, curious and fearful about what was unfolding before them. _Thank goodness for the neighbors. _Antoinette was able to walk behind them and stay out of sight, but not before she glimpsed a distraught Christine, still in her dressing gown, talking to a soldier in the garden. Madame Giry glared at her as she passed by, willing the Vicomtesse, who looked quite hysterical, to keep her mouth shut.

_All right, Erik. If I were you, where would I go?_ She knew he'd been injured badly, and he couldn't have gotten far. She scanned her surroundings, and decided to make her way around to the back of the house. Looking past the foreboding iron fence at the elegant balcony stories above her, Antoinette thought she might be getting somewhere. It was so Shakespearean, so romantic. Erik had to have been here. It was only a hunch, but it was all she had to go by.

"Madame?"

Antoinette spun around to face a stern-looking gendarme, armed to the teeth. "Yes, officer?" She managed to say.

"Surely you've heard, madame. An extremely dangerous fugitive was seen here last night, and is most likely still at large. He could be somewhere close by. We're advising all civilians to get indoors and stay there until he's found, so, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

"Oh, yes sir, right away," Madame Giry said, thankful that the gendarme was not suspicious of her. For once she was grateful to be away from the world of the opera house, where everyone had known she had some special connection with Erik, or the Phantom as they'd known him.

She turned the corner, out of the man's sight, and breathed a sigh of relief. The back gate was just feet away from her, she noticed, and she turned to look into the wall of trees that surrounded the entire Parc. There was a little path leading into the shady forest, barely visible. But Erik could see in the dark better than anyone she knew, and he always found the most obscure pathways to take. Antoinette thought it over for a brief moment, then hurried down the path before anyone could spot her.

The area of forest was small, but the path was lined by old, tall trees that blocked out much of the sunlight and completely hid Antoinette from the prying eyes of the police or any of the civilians. As she walked she quickened her strides, searching desperately for any trace of Erik. Her every thought was a prayer for his safety. He had to be all right. He just had to be. After everything he'd been put through in his life, he didn't deserve to have it all end this way.

Madame Giry stopped for a moment to catch her breath. Though the shade of the trees cast shadows all across the way before her, she glimpsed something darker to the side of the path. She moved closer. It looked like…

Her heart sank, then began to race as she dashed forward.

There was a body in the dead leaves. It lay on its side, not facing her, but she knew who it was. She knelt beside him and turned him over.

"Erik…Erik!" She looked in horror at the blood staining his clothes, the gashes on his leg, chest, and shoulder. It looked as though he'd been able to stop the bleeding, but the Vicomte's guard dogs had left their mark on his body, his skin torn in gaping, horrifying wounds. He looked so pale and weak, lying there motionless. "Wake up, oh please wake up!" She reached out and gently touched the left side of his face, praying and willing him to come back to her. His face was cold to the touch, but not as cold as the skin of a corpse would be. Her heart soared. There was a chance. She took his arm and was about to feel for his pulse when she saw him slowly open his eyes.

Antoinette gasped. "Oh, thank God!" She let out a sigh of relief. "You're still alive."

"Still alive…" Erik blinked, his eyes dull, his expression pained. "Damn."

"What do you…?"

"Leave me, Antoinette. Let me stay here. Let me die."

Madame Giry couldn't believe what she was hearing. Erik was talking nonsense. "Let you die? Don't be ridiculous. I've found you, and I'm going to take care of you. Can you walk?"

"I _can't_ live without her, Antoinette. Let me die. _Please_." His glassy eyes pleaded with her.

"You _can _live, Erik. You don't need her."

He grimaced with pain. "I'm all alone…I can't live without her. She rejected me again. I thought she would come with me…I can't believe it. Why did this have to happen to me…again?"

Antoinette's heart was breaking for him, but she had to tell him the truth. Maybe this time, she could get through to him. "Because the two of you are not meant to be. You have to learn to accept that and move on with your life. Now answer me: can you walk?"

Erik shook his head slightly. "Not meant to be…that's what she said to me. _Why?_ _Why _are we not meant to be? What have I done? Where did I go wrong?" His voice was hoarse and quiet, full of sorrow and pain.

Madame Giry sighed. "She fell in love with Raoul. No one can change that, Erik."

He groaned. "Why him? Why not me? _What did I do to deserve this? _Why am I cursed to be alone? Why has no one ever loved…"

"Enough!" Antoinette cried. Erik fell silent and looked at her strangely. It was no wonder he was surprised; she rarely dared to interrupt him when he spoke. But this time she had something she needed to say. "I love you!"

Erik's eyes widened as his lips parted in alarm.

"I've always loved you!" Antoinette said fiercely. "You're like a brother to me. You and Meg, you're all the family I have. I love you more than anything in the world, and I can't let anything happen to you!"

The former Phantom of the Opera, the man that had terrorized countless people, was looking up at her with his beautiful eyes, eyes that held shock and utter confusion, but all the awe and wonder of a child's gaze upon something new and incredible. He was speechless for a moment, but he managed to say a single word. "You…?"

"_I love you, Erik_. And if you had any sense at all, you would see that I'm not the only one!"

He squinted at her, trying to read her expression. "What?"

She didn't have time to explain, nor did she want to. He would have to figure things out for himself. "Can you walk? Yes or no? The police could come down the path at any minute and discover us. We have to get out of here, now."

Erik, still looking bewildered, closed his eyes and seemed to gather whatever strength he might have left. Slowly, he sat up, and dragged himself to his feet, gasping with the pain. Madame Giry stood alongside him and pulled the hood of his cloak over his head so that his recognizable, masked face would be hidden if someone spotted him. Erik tried to take a step forward. His leg buckled, and he nearly fell, but Antoinette let him lean against her. He was taller and heavier than she was; it was a struggle, but she helped support his weight the best she could, and they made their way slowly down the path.

Madame Giry had been for a walk in this wood before, and she knew that the path would eventually lead them very close to the Comte de Bellamy's house. She kept on praying as she and Erik stumbled along the way in silence. It had only taken a little while for her to travel the distance earlier, but this time their pace was agonizingly slow. Every step was torture for Erik. He didn't say a word, but she could see it on his face how much pain he was in. After what seemed like an eternity, they finally came to the fork in the path that they needed to take.

"Wait here," Antoinette said to Erik, who staggered to the side, leaning heavily on a tree for support. Cautiously, she stepped out into the openness of the neighborhood. The sidewalks and street were deserted; it looked like the soldiers and gendarmes had ordered all civilians indoors. This would only make it easier for the fugitive they hunted to escape…provided none of the officers caught sight of them. She turned back to Erik. "We're going to have to move faster now that we're out in the open. Do you think you can handle it?"

Erik just nodded, and Madame Giry came over and let him lean on her again. Together, they stepped out into the neighborhood. They were walking faster now, but Antoinette kept looking around nervously, terrified that someone would see them. True, Erik's face was hidden, but two lone figures on an evacuated street, one shrouded in black and limping, would look extremely suspicious. Still, at least the house was in sight, and she was determined to make it there safely.

They made it to the back of the house, and Antoinette guided Erik to stand to the side of the door and between two windows while she went inside and checked to see if the hallway was clear. It was empty, so she went back for Erik and helped him down the stairs, painfully slowly.

Then she heard a door slam, and both of them started. Her throat felt like it was closing up, but she kept going, hoping that somehow whoever had just come into the hallway wouldn't say anything.

But the middle-aged man dressed in porter's clothes, Louis, always said something. He walked towards them hurriedly and began talking loudly, "Ah, there you are, Antoinette! We've been looking for you everywhere! Have you been outside? Haven't you heard, about the murderer that's been seen in the Parc? What's his name…that opera phantom or something like that…"

"Y-yes, I've heard," Madame Giry replied, tightening her grip on Erik's arm. She could feel his pulse racing; he was nervous too. "My…cousin, here, knows about him all too well. He was…supposed to arrive yesterday to visit with us but he had an encounter with the madman…"

"Good heavens!" Louis looked Erik up and down. "What on earth did he do to you?"

"Well, obviously my cousin was badly hurt in the fight, so I'm bringing him to our apartment right away so I can take care of him," Antoinette answered quickly, motioning Louis out of the way so that she and Erik could pass.

The man moved aside, shaking his head in disbelief at the wounds on her "cousin's" body. "You do that. This poor fellow's in bad shape. One thing's for sure, I'll be on the lookout for that fugitive. He can't run forever. The law will punish him eventually for doing things like this to innocent people!"

Madame Giry didn't reply as she guided Erik to the apartment. Oh, the irony of it all…he'd just stood in front of the man that was being hunted, and that fugitive had been staying in the house of the person who perhaps wanted him dead more than anyone else.

Once inside, she rushed to get some towels and threw them across the couch. Then she brought Erik over and helped him slowly lie down.

The man let out a sigh. "Thank you," he whispered. His hood was down now, and she could see his dull eyes, exhaustion written all over his face. "You should have left me there…"

"Don't talk such nonsense!" Antoinette snapped as she fetched a bowl of water along with some soap and clean linen cloths. "I could never leave you."

Erik just closed his eyes and let his head fall back on the pillow, grimacing occasionally as Madame Giry washed his gruesome injuries as gently as she could. She tried not to look at his face as she slowly sewed the jagged wounds shut; she could feel the tenseness in his body and see how tightly his fists were clenched. Though he was in agony, he did not make a sound. Erik was tougher than most men. Pain was nothing new to him, she reflected, remembering the night she'd first met Erik, the night the gypsy man had been brutally beating him. He already bore many scars, and these injuries were sure to leave more.

Finally she bandaged the wounds, and made Erik take a little drink of water. "There. I'm all finished here now," she said softly. "I hate to have to leave you, but I must get back to my work. I'll be back as soon as I can." She started for the door, then turned around to face him. "Don't even _think_ about going anywhere."

Erik opened his eyes a little. "No need to worry about that," he rasped. "Nowhere to go."

"Not yet, anyway," Madame Giry said with a cryptic edge to her voice. "You may not agree with me right now, but please, at least listen. You may think your life is over now because Christine's rejected you. But your life's _not_ over, Erik. It's only just beginning."

He stared at her, his expression a mixture of interest, confusion, and pure exhaustion.

"Please, think about what I'm saying now. And do not forget the things I told you back in the woods. I promise you, what I have said is the truth. Every single word."

And reluctantly she left Erik, lying there and thinking over what she had spoken, until weariness overcame him and he fell into dreams.

As Madame Giry went about her housekeeping work that day, her thoughts were with him all the while. It seemed to be her role in life, to save him, to catch him every time he fell. She had done her job well thus far; after everything that had happened to him, there he was, still alive. But, she thought to herself, there was one thing she knew she could never do for him.

Erik had been born with a broken heart. Into something unimaginable, something no human should ever have to experience: a life without love. Each and every torture he'd had to face in his life had broken his shattered heart into smaller and smaller pieces; it was a wonder there was anything left of him at all. No family to care for him. No one to love him for who he was. True, Antoinette loved him dearly, and always would, but she knew she couldn't give Erik what he needed.

She could not be the one to save him.

But maybe, just maybe, she knew of someone who could…

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Alana stepped down onto the hot, dusty road, blinking in the bright sun. Everything looked exactly the same, Détente just the way she'd left it.

But now, she felt like a stranger in the town. Cerise and her aunt got out of the carriage and stood beside her, shading their eyes and taking a look around as Raimond tied up the horse. The people on the street, familiar faces, looked at the four of them as they passed by, and they whispered amongst themselves. Alana knew she had to have been a source of gossip for the town with her sudden disappearance, and with her father being thrown in jail.

"Alana!" she heard a woman's voice cry out.

She turned, and there was Madame Marguerite Durand, hurrying towards her. Soon she felt her friend's arms wrapped around her in a tight hug. "I've missed you my dear," the woman was saying. "It seems you've been gone so long."

Alana hugged her friend tighter. She really hadn't been gone long, but it felt like an eternity since she had talked to Marguerite, had walked these streets. Since things had been normal. "I've missed you too," she said as she stepped back. "Oh, by the way, this is my cousin Cerise. And my Uncle Raimond and Aunt Amélie."

"Pleasure to meet you all," Marguerite said warmly as she curtsied to them. "Now." Her voice became grave. "Are you ready to go and see him?"

Alana swallowed hard, trying to push back the overwhelming sense of dread. Fear. She forced herself to slowly turn around, and stare directly at the building she had been trying not to look at.

The town jail.

Trouble was rare in Détente, and the thought of her father being locked up inside was so humiliating, both for herself and for him. She was angry with him, and at the same time she pitied him, her heart aching with every beat.

She'd never even been inside the jail, and she was scared. But she couldn't avoid this. She had to face it, head on.

"I'm ready."


	26. Chapter 26

Chapter Twenty-six

The first thing Alana noticed when she walked through the door was the darkness. The jail had no windows to let in the brightness of the day's sun, just the dim light of two rusty oil lamps, and the air was stale and stuffy. It was a tiny building with only two cells, and there was no jailer to be found. There was only one other human being in sight, a bedraggled-looking man with torn clothes lying motionless on a cot, facing the wall.

Her father.

For a moment she just stood there, staring, overcome with emotion. She'd long harbored resentment towards him for his treatment of her, and as she looked at him now, bad memories she'd been trying to bury deep inside came flooding into her mind again. She could almost feel the sting of his hand across her face, the blow of the giant branch he'd beaten her with the night Erik had rescued her. All at once, Alana was filled with fear, and she trembled where she stood.

And then other memories came to her. Memories of Andre laughing with her and her mother. Of him telling her stories, teaching her how to ride a horse, taking her on hiking trips to explore the woods of the countryside. She remembered parties at the house, back when their family had had friends. She remembered Christmases past, decorating trees and opening presents. Tears came to her eyes as she recalled her father dancing with her as her mother sang. He waltzed her across the room, then lifted her into his arms and spun her around as she laughed.

Alana's heart was breaking. She'd never felt such a strange combination of terror, anger, and love. She loved him. He was her father after all. She missed him. Wiping her tears away, she found the strength to speak.

"Hello."

The man in the cell stirred, and rolled over. He ran a hand across his face and blinked in the dim light. His eyes grew wide. "You!"

"Yes, me." Alana was halfway between smiling and crying again.

Andre looked conflicted as well; his face was a combination of fear, anger, and guilt. He got up and walked to the front of the cell. Unconsciously, Alana backed away a little. "I thought you'd gone. Left town." His voice was hoarse.

"I did," Alana said. "But I've come back for you, Father. I heard what happened. And I'm here to help."

Andre just shook his head and gave a low, bitter laugh. "You can't help me."

His attitude clearly hadn't improved any. "You know, I think this is the first time I've seen you sober since Mother died."

Her father's face changed, grew softer. Sadder. "Don't mention that…please don't mention it."

She couldn't remember the last time she'd heard him speak without screaming at her. "How does it feel, not being drunk?"

He grunted. "Terrible. Ever since they took my drink away and locked me up here, all I've been able to do is think about her. And about you." He sighed and looked at the floor. "I remember waking up one morning to find myself outside. I'd been hit on the back of the head, I still don't know what happened. I went home, and you were gone. And you never came back. I…I wasn't sure what had happened to you. I thought…you had run away, or been kidnapped, or killed. Hell, I even considered the possibility that I had killed you..,"

Alana gasped.

"Awful, I know. Not knowing what had happened was eating me up inside…it only made me want to drink more, and when I couldn't, I snapped. Got in a fight, and wound up locked in here."

"I know," she said. "Madame Durand told me."

"She came and saw me the other day, and told me about you, that you were alive and safe. I felt better, knowing that you were all right, but I know that I'm the reason you left, Alana." He was looking directly at her now, his eyes filled with pain. "You ran away from me."

She was trembling, and could not speak.

"But I understand why you did," he continued. "Who knows what I would have done to you? God, all I want is to get some whiskey in here, but I'm _afraid_ to drink it now. Who knows what I'll say, what I'll do to you? My own daughter!" Andre's expression was tortured. "I don't want you to be afraid of me…are you afraid of me, Alana?"

The girl backed up a few more steps, still speechless.

"Oh no, you are. I can see it in your eyes." He hid his face in his hands. "I'm so sorry." He lifted his face up to gaze up at the ceiling. "I'm so sorry. Lord. What have I done?"

By then, Alana had gone.

A few minutes later, Raimond walked through the door. Andre was leaning against the iron bars of his cell, staring at the floor, but he looked up when he heard the door close.

"You…what are you doing here?" Andre growled.

Raimond stepped forward. "Alana's been staying with us in Paris. Now I might ask you the same question Andre…what are you doing here? Behind bars?"

"Don't pretend you don't know." He spat on the floor.

The other man looked at him sadly. "Drinking doesn't make anyone's troubles go away, Andre. It just buries them beneath an ever growing pile of other problems."

"Don't you think I know that by now?" Andre's voice sounded angry and desperately miserable. "I'm in jail! The whole town has been talking about me, the town drunk, for years, and now I'm really giving them something to talk about…did you know that I'm the only man to get arrested here in almost a year? Do you know how it feels to be the town outcast? No, of course not! You've always been the brother who got everything he ever wanted! The perfect life! Father always did like you best, because _your _mother…!"

Raimond held up a hand. "Let's not get into this, Andre," he interjected. "What I want to know is, why did you not tell me about Una's death?"

The other man was silent.

It hurt Raimond to bring it up, and he knew it was hurting his half brother even more, but he had to know what Andre had to say for himself. He needed to understand. "Amelie and I would have come to Détente in a heartbeat. We would have tried our best to help you and Alana. We could have taken care of the farm, instead of leaving your poor daughter to try and run things on her own…while you went out and squandered your life's savings!"

Andre was shaking his head. "I robbed her of her childhood, Raimond," he said sadly. "I ruined her life. All she wanted to do was help me. And I turned around and hit her across the face when she dared to speak to me. No child should have had to live the way she did. Oh God, Raimond, what have I done? I don't even deserve to live."

"We'll get through this." Raimond knew his half-brother needed encouragement right now, not criticism. "In time, you can be free of your addiction. Your daughter will learn not to be afraid. And you will remember how to be the man you once were."

Andre grimaced. "He died the day Una left us."

"But she didn't leave, Andre. She's still with us. She'll always be alive in our memories. In our hearts."

"You know it's not the same."

Raimond sighed. "Yes, I do. She meant a lot to me too, brother…to everyone who knew her. It's hard living in a world without someone like her."

"She was the wisest, strongest, most beautiful person I've ever known. How could I possibly live without her by my side?"

"By remembering her as she was," Raimond said. "By living the way she would have wanted you to. By remembering that she's not gone, that you will see her once more someday, and you will never be parted again."

"You speak of Heaven, don't you?"

Raimond nodded. "That's where Una is. Waiting for you. For all of us."

"You're such a fool. I'll never see her again. If there really is a Heaven, then there's no place there for someone like me.

"All have fallen short," the other man said. "But no sin is unforgivable. God will always love you. So will your daughter. And so will I."

Andre looked up at him in surprise.

"No matter what, you will always be my brother." Raimond smiled and held out a hand. "Do you want to change your life?"

For the first time, Andre laughed. "You are such a preacher."

Raimond laughed along with him. "What can I say? Now, do you want to change your life or not?"

Andre took his hand and shook it. "No more drinking. No more acting like a fool. I want to be a good father to my daughter."

Raimond smiled. "You already are, brother."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

In Paris, the hunt for the Phantom of the Opera was still in progress. By now it was afternoon, and there were no leads, not even the slightest clue. Damien took off his hat and wiped the sweat from his brow. "I hate this man," he said to Raoul, who stood next to him as the two stopped for a rest. "I really hate him. This is impossible."

"I know what you mean," the other man replied. "He's uncatchable."

"That's not even a real word, you idiot," Damien laughed.

"It's this awful heat," said Raoul as he shaded his eyes from the sun. "It's melting my brain."

"Ha! What brain? Anyone with a brain would have stuck to the plan…_my _plan, instead of completely changing the game like you've done."

"Your plan could still work," Raoul protested. "He could still come to the ball. He _does_ have a habit of showing up in places where he's not wanted. And, Christine will be there. "

Damien nodded. "And Mademoiselle Valjean. I suppose there's a possibility he might still come. He'd better. Because searching for him like this is such a pain in the…"

"My lord!" came a cry from behind them.

Both men turned, and there was Emilian standing before them.

"Do you have any leads?" Damien asked him.

The gypsy man shrugged. "I was just going to suggest that we search Sacree Boulevard. That's where I found the bodies…"

"And that's where Alana lives," Damien interrupted. "He could have gone to her for help." He turned to Raoul. "It's worth a shot, wouldn't you say?"

The Vicomte nodded, and they set off, Emilian leading the way.

"This is the house," Damien said. "I've been here before."

Raoul raised an eyebrow, much to Damien's annoyance.

"Not like that. I go to the church across the street for heaven's sakes, the man who lives here is my pastor…and I also happened to bring Alana home the other day. But…" he added before his friend had a chance to say anything, "I only walked her to the door."

"Good boy," Raoul said, and Damien laughed, unconsciously reaching inside his jacket pocket to feel the metal of the revolver he kept hidden there.

They knocked on the door repeatedly with no answer. "Now, how are we going to get in?" the Comte asked. "And where's Emilian?"

From behind the house, there came a sound of breaking glass. The two men looked at each other, than ran around back. There was Emilian, reaching through the broken glass at the top of the door and unlocking it. He pushed the door open. "Gentlemen." He bowed slightly and motioned for them to go inside.

"You broke their door? Really?"

Damien glared at Emilian, who just shrugged and said, "They won't know who did it."

The Comte rolled his eyes and pushed past the other two men. They split up and spent the next hour searching the house. They found nothing of real value to their search. Raoul found a large pile of sheet music in one of the bedrooms, written in what looked like the madman's handwriting, but nothing that could lead them to him now. Frustrated, they left the house, not noticing several bulges where Emilian's formerly empty pockets were.

Next they decided to search the church building because of the family connection and close proximity to the house. The building was required to be left open during the day as a venue for the public, mostly politicians and activists, to discuss important issues, a practice that had been continued even after the Commune was ended. The two aristocrats and the gypsy entered the church and hunted for clues once again, finding nothing but a roomful of irate politicians, angry at being disturbed when Raoul and Damien suddenly burst through the doors.

They were walking back to the entrance with Emilian, annoyed and muttering obscenities cursing their failures, when they heard sounds of shouting, and gunshots. Damien dashed forward to open the door, and saw the streets beginning to flood with people, all crowded together and screaming protests. He slammed the door shut. "It's another blasted riot!"

Raoul groaned. "Wonderful. Now it will be even easier for the Phantom disappear."

Damien nodded miserably. "And how are we going to get back home? The streets will be too crowded, and once those rioters see us dressed like this, they'll probably tar and feather us, or who knows what."

The Vicomte nodded; this crowd was fiercely, radically socialistic and hated the Parisian aristocrats.

"I can help," Emilian said. "Take off your jackets. Rumple your clothes up a bit." The other two men obeyed. "There, that's good. Now, follow me out this side door. I can take you back another way."

He led them outside into the side street, where they were greeted by the deafening cries of the protesters, shouting for better treatment of workers, equal rights for all, and an end to the reign of the aristocrats. Most of the crowd was on the opposite side of the building, but many wild-eyed men and women were rushing through this street to join the rest of the throng. Some ran into Raoul and almost knocked him over as Emilian led them forward. The Vicomte brushed himself off and glared in the rioters' direction. "I swear, it's like the Revolution days again. I feel like Louis XV."

Damien pushed past two other young men carrying signs with letters scrawled in blood red ink. "At least they haven't brought out the guillotines yet. And I think you'd be more of a Marie Antoinette anyway," he said, his eyes gleaming mischievously.

"Remind me why I'm even friends with you," the Vicomte growled as the three of them ducked into a deserted alley.

"Because despite myself, I started letting you follow me around out of the goodness of my heart," Damien said, flashing Raoul an innocent smile. "_Someone _had to."

Raoul couldn't think of a comeback, so the three men hurried through the dark alleys in silence. Damien kept his eyes open, searching everywhere for a trace of the Phantom or a clue that might lead them to him. He was bound to lurk in a place like this, waiting in the shadows to prey on the innocent. In spite of the summer heat, he felt a chill in the air. He glanced over at Raoul; he looked as nervous as Damien felt. Neither one of them had been to this part of the city, where they passed vagabonds and drunks lying asleep in the street while rats and other vermin crawled around them. At least they had Emilian to guide them-Damien planned to pay him handsomely for his help today. If not for him, they might never have made it past the riot. He and Raoul were both well-known faces in the city, everyone knew their names. And those protesters were not fond of them and their wealth at all. For a moment, he looked at Emilian just in front of them, wondering what the youngish gypsy man thought of them. _Just how loyal was he? What did he believe in exactly? He wouldn't lead them into some trap out here in this shady part of the city, would he? _Damien cursed inwardly. Blast these uncertain times. It seemed that no one could be sure of anything, or anyone.

But he was just being paranoid; Emilian led them safely back to Parc de Seigneurs and the Comte paid him well for his assistance. The man had really been proving himself useful lately.

The two men went into a parlor and collapsed onto a pair of couches. It had been a long, fruitless day.

"Well, now what do we do?" Damien asked, staring up at the ceiling.

"I think we should talk to someone," the Vicomte said evenly.

Damien turned to look at him. "Who?"

"Your housekeeper."

"Madame Giry? I've already questioned all the servants. She said she doesn't have any idea of his whereabouts."

The other man rolled his eyes. "That doesn't mean anything."

"She seems to be a good woman, and she's been a wonderful servant so far. I don't think she would lie to me."

"I think she would," said Raoul. "I've told you how she used to work at the Opera Populaire. She and her daughter were there for years. And I've told you how Madame Giry has a...special connection to the Phantom. She's the one who brought him to the opera house in the first place."

At the words, Damien bristled. _That meant Madame Giry was partly to blame for Avery's death. If she hadn't brought the madman to the opera house, then the accident would never have happened. _"Very well. We can question her again."

Soon the housekeeper was standing before them, stone-faced.

"You're probably aware that the Phantom was at my house last night," Raoul said to the woman.

She nodded. "Everyone has been talking about it."

"He escaped, but he was injured. Has he contacted you in any way?" he asked.

"No." Madame Giry was a hard woman to read sometimes. Neither man could tell if she was lying or speaking the truth. "With all due respect, I have told the both of you that I have not seen or heard from him since the night of the accident."

"You do know that obstruction of justice is a crime, don't you?" Raoul was frustrated and hoping to get some kind of reaction out of her.

Still, she gazed back at him, unflinching. "I am aware of that, monsieur."

"Then you also know that it's your public duty to tell us the truth."

"I am…"

"Well I don't believe you!" Raoul burst out. "You've always tried to protect him, and who's to say you aren't doing that now? The man is pathetic, he can't survive on his own. He needs someone to hide him, to support him, and for years you were that woman. And I think you still are. I think you know exactly where he is. Maybe you've hidden him away somewhere." The Vicomte turned to Damien, who'd been watching both of them, thinking deeply. "Have you had the Girys' apartment searched?"

"No, I thought it would be an invasion of privacy. And I believed her story before. But," he directed his gaze at Madame Giry, with suspicion in his eyes, "perhaps that wouldn't be such a bad idea. I think the two of us should go and have a look around."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

If there was one thing Meg had learned from her mother-other than dancing, of course-it was how to eavesdrop. When Antoinette had been suddenly called to meet with the master and the Vicomte in the parlor, she had known something was the matter. Especially since the entire household had been talking about how a murderous fugitive had been seen in the Parc the night before. She had discreetly followed her mother, and proceeded to dust a shelf of curios in the hallway outside the parlor, listening in on the conversation.

As soon as she heard the Comte de Bellamy say that they should have a look around the apartment, Meg dropped the duster and broke into a mad dash, hoisting up her skirts as she rushed down the hallway, ignoring the surprised faces and questions of her fellow servants.

She cut through the kitchen, narrowly avoiding a collision with the head chef, who carried a pot of boiling water. Then she burst into the servants' quarters hallway, which was thankfully empty since it was nearly dinnertime. She threw open their apartment door, then closed it as quietly as she could.

Erik was lying on the couch sleeping, covered in blankets. Meg hurried over to him. "Erik!" she whispered fiercely. "Erik! Wake up!"

He didn't stir, so she knelt beside him and gathered enough courage to reach out and shake him a little. He still slept, so she shook him harder. "Wake up!"

The man let out a groan of pain, and as soon as his eyes opened he gave her a vicious glare. "_What?"_

"You have to get out of here now! Raoul de Chagny has made the master suspicious! They're coming to search the apartment! We have to leave!"

Erik looked stunned and disconcerted at the news, but he quickly sat up, letting out a gasp.

"What's the matter?" Meg asked, but as he got up she saw his torn clothes and the bandages. "Oh no. Mother told me you were hurt, but I didn't know it was that bad."

"It's not. I'll be fine." Erik was already limping towards the door. Meg hurried to open it first and make sure the hallway was clear. It was, and she reached to put up the hood of Erik's cloak. His masked face had to be hidden.

"Here, let me help you." Meg's fear was gone now, replaced by an overwhelming sense of panic and a simultaneous drive to help the man escape at all costs. If he were caught, her mother would be heartbroken. And all three of them might end up in prison. She let Erik lean on her a little, and they began making their way as fast as possible down the hallway.

They stepped outside and set off into the twilight, keeping to the backstreets.

"Where are we going?" Erik asked her.

"Back home."


	27. Chapter 27

Chapter Twenty-seven

The journey to the Opera Populaire seemed to last forever. Finally, Meg left Erik leaning against a brick wall in an empty alley as she cautiously went to investigate the area. He closed his eyes and tried not to fall. His whole body ached and his heart still stung with rejection. All he wanted was to collapse on the ground and never wake up again, and yet…there was something holding him back. The words Madame Giry had said…she'd told him she loved him. That meant the world to him, and he was only angry that she hadn't said it sooner. He had a love for her too, in his own way, and he regretted the many times he had been cruel to her. He'd make it up to her, if he made it out of this alive.

And what did she mean when she said she wasn't the only one who loved him? It couldn't be Meg she was referring to. Meg might be helping him now, he reflected gratefully, but she still harbored some fear and resentment towards him. And it was clearly not Christine, he thought bitterly.

_Who?_

Suddenly the answer came to him.

It was unbelievably obvious, yet the realization struck him with such power that he nearly fell to the ground.

Could it be?

It had to be.

But it was impossible! He was…_Erik. _Alone. Unloved. But now…he wasn't.

How did he feel about that? He didn't even know.

And he didn't have time to think it over, because Meg had crept back to the alley, her face pale in the moonlight.

"The entire opera house is surrounded," she whispered, brown eyes wide with fear. "I should have known…the police must have anticipated you'd return there. I don't know what we're going to do now…"

Erik held up a finger. "Café Aria."

"What?" The girl looked at him like he was insane.

"I know what we're going to do now," he said. "Follow me." He dared to let go of the wall. His legs threatened to give out, but he managed to take a few agonizing steps before Meg took pity on him and let him lean against her.

The Café Aria was just a street away from the opera house, but the way appeared deserted. Just as they were about to cross the street, they heard the hoof beats of a mounted soldiers somewhere, coming closer. Meg pulled him back into the darkness of the alley, and Erik picked up part of the officers' conversation.

"…think he's underground? Oh, I couldn't say, but guarding the opera house is a wise decision."

"Even if he did make it underground, there's no way he can survive. There's all kinds of traps…"

"and there's no one to take care of him anymore, with all the opera people gone."

"No matter what, he's doomed. All this will be over soon."

_Don't let it be over. Not yet. Please, not yet. _He wasn't ready. The things Madame Giry had said…they'd given him a sense of curiosity, hope. He had something to live for. Though the two Girys would be better off without him, despite what they might say, there was someone out there who wouldn't. Someone who would miss him. Someone he didn't want to leave.

"All right, it's safe to go now," Meg was saying, and then he was limping as fast as he could without falling. They hurried around to the back of the restaurant, a café that had been open for as long as he'd been there. Madame Giry had often brought him food from this place; when he'd first come to the opera house, she'd begged the head chef and the owners to give her their leftovers. They'd agreed, and that way she was able to keep Erik from starving. In time, he was able to pay for his own meals, but Antoinette needed a quick way to deliver them to him without anyone seeing. Erik stumbled upon the answer himself when he discovered that many of the older buildings in the area, like Café Aria, were connected by countless underground passageways; one night he accidentally

found himself in the restaurant's storeroom. Antoinette paid the café staff not to tell anyone about the passageway and her later use of it, and from then on she had a safe, easy way to get food to Erik.

Café Aria had saved him from starvation, and now it was going to save him again. Erik took a pick from his cloak and fiddled with the door lock until it opened. Once inside the café, he and Meg silently made their way to the kitchen, and from there down a flight of stairs to the cellar storeroom.

As they entered, Erik tried to remember where he had come into the room from the other side, all those years ago. Meg lit an oil lamp and they examined the room, until Erik's gaze fell upon one shelf cluttered with kitchen equipment. Unlike the other shelves in the storeroom, that one appeared to be a few centimeters off the ground. He and Meg moved closer to investigate.

"It's on a sort of…track," Meg realized.

"Help me move it aside," Erik said, reaching out to push the wood away despite the pain that racked his body. With Meg alongside him, he pressed against the side of its shelf, and it moved across the track with surprising ease. A blast of cold, underground air hit both of them square in the face.

"I think we found our way in," Meg said as they stepped into the dark tunnel and closed what appeared as a heavy iron door on this side. She let Erik lean against her as he led the way, the oil lamp lighting their path a little. "It's so dark." The girl shuddered.

It _was _terribly dark here, Erik thought to himself. All the years spent in this cold, dismal place…

He was losing the strength to reflect on his past, or think about anything for that matter. His thoughts were growing hazy; his world was one of darkness and weariness and pain. He was walking blind, conscious only of the agony and the presence of the girl at his side, helping him along. She was so much like her mother, he thought distantly, and he would have smiled if he'd had the strength.

"So many secret pathways," said Meg as they walked. "A person could be lost down here forever."

It seemed they walked through the cold darkness for a lifetime, but Erik could have traveled through the passages in his sleep. Finally, they stepped through the door that opened to Erik's living quarters. They passed his storage rooms and library and came to his bedroom, and before he knew it Erik had collapsed into bed and Meg was covering him with blankets.

He'd never felt so tired in his life, or so relieved to be able to rest. Sleep could take him away from his pain. The hope Madame Giry had given him still could not make the overwhelming sorrow he felt cease from torturing him. He clutched the ring around his neck, but he was too exhausted to cry. He let the weariness take over, and felt himself fading away…

"Oh no you don't. You can't go to sleep yet. You need to get something to eat and drink first," came Meg's voice.

Erik groaned. She _was _just like her mother.

Meg had some wine and what looked like a tin of crackers from his storeroom. He choked down the wine as best he could, but the crackers were far worse. They were

the only food that hadn't spoiled in the months he'd been gone, but they were stale and tasteless. He thought he'd never survive the crackers; Meg insisted he finish and wouldn't leave him in peace until they were gone.

At last, he was done, and she left him for home after lighting some candles so he wouldn't be in utter darkness if he awoke before someone came back for him.

_My angel may have forsaken me, _Erik thought as his head fell back against the pillow, _but I am not alone after all. Antoinette was right. She and her daughter will always be there when I need help. They love me. They _actually _love me. And so does…_

Then sleep overcame him.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

When Meg finally returned home after a nerve-wracking journey through the patrolled streets, she found her mother packing suitcases.

"What's going on?" Meg asked, her pulse quickening. This could not be a good thing.

"We're fired," Antoinette said, not looking her daughter in the eyes as she continued to pack.

"What…?"

"The Vicomte de Chagny," her mother practically spat the words, "has convinced the master that you and I are hiding something from him. The two of us are fired, and evicted as well. They've also tipped off the police with the possibility that we know where the Phantom is, so if I were you I would start packing as quickly as possible."

Speechless at first, Meg began to fill a case with clothes. "But Maman…where are we going to go? If the police are suspicious…" She slammed her suitcase shut. "This is all Erik's fault! We could go to prison because of him! He ruins everything," she said bitterly.

"But he needs us, my dear," Antoinette said, putting a hand on her daughter's shoulder. "You did a good thing, by helping him today. You saved the three of us from a terrible fate."

Meg cheered up a bit at her mother's approval, but couldn't rid herself of her anger and bewilderment. "But where are we going to go now? We don't have anything, anywhere to live…"

Antoinette just gave her a wry smile. "Then we will have to go to the place for those who have nowhere else to belong."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Andre Valjean was released on bond from the Détente jail.

It had been a long ride back to Paris, with Raimond, Amelie, Cerise, Alana, and Andre all crammed into the single small carriage. They'd managed to get Andre out on bond, and he'd sat in the carriage between Amelie and Cerise. It was the quietest journey Alana had ever taken in her life, the uncomfortable silence only broken by her father's irritable complaints. He wasn't as angry as he normally was, but he was clearly suffering from withdrawal. He looked and felt terrible, and complained about problems that no one else noticed or bothered to point out, and spoke of how much he needed a drink. Alana did not speak a word the entire journey; she was busy trying to repress the painful memories of her father and remember the good ones. Eventually, she grew too depressed and weary of thinking of him, so her thoughts went to Erik. She was glad to be going back to Paris, to see him again.

When they pulled up in front of the house in the city, Andre stopped complaining. Instead, he stepped out of the carriage and stared. "It looks just the same as it always has," he said. His eyes took in the lush grass of the small front garden, the sunflowers growing up tall on the left side, the lilac trees that lined the street, and the simplistic charm of the house. The sight seemed to give him some kind of comfort. Almost smiling, he looked at Alana, but she averted her gaze. She still wasn't able to speak to him.

She didn't see her father look down at the ground, clenching a fist as he wiped something from his eye with his other hand.

They went inside and Raimond showed Andre to a guest room. Cerise immediately went to Alana's side. "How are you doing?" she asked, though her face showed that she already knew.

Alana sighed. "It's hard for me to even look at him…I love him, I really do but…I don't know…"

"You don't want him to hurt you again," Cerise said for her. "But don't be afraid…we're all here. You'll be safe. And this is your father's chance to prove all of us that he can change."

"Just have faith," said Amelie as she went to the kitchen to prepare supper for all of them. "I think Andre wants to get better. And he doesn't want to disappoint you again, Alana."

She wasn't sure how to respond to that, but she didn't have a chance anyway. Her thoughts were interrupted by her aunt's sudden gasp. Alana and Cerise hurried to the kitchen, where they found Amelie staring at the jagged shards of broken glass from the window above their back door, the pieces scattered all across the wooden floor. "What on earth…" Cerise began.

"Someone's broken into the house," Amelie finished. She turned and headed out of the kitchen and upstairs, with the two younger women following her. Amelie went into her bedroom and opened her jewelry box. She closed her eyes and put a hand over her mouth as she turned to face Alana and Cerise. "And we've been robbed."

As soon as Raimond found out, everyone did a quick search of the entire house. Jewelry, some kitchen silver, and a few gold pocket watches were missing.

"Nice place you've brought me to," Andre said with biting sarcasm. "What a good, safe neighborhood my daughter's had to be living in."

Raimond said nothing in reply to his half-brother but gave him a look that Alana understood. What her uncle had wanted to say was, _She's been safer with us than with you. _And he was right.

"Nothing like this has ever happened to us before, Andre," Raimond said. "I'm going to have to go down to the police station now before the curfew takes effect."

"Curfew?" Andre looked confused.

"A lot has changed since you were last in Paris. I'll tell you about it on the way to the station."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Raimond Valjean did not usually frequent police stations, but this one, he realized, was unnaturally quiet and empty. There was a man at the front desk, but the rest of the building was nearly silent, with only a few men working inside.

"I'd like to report a break-in and a robbery," he said to the tired-looking man at the desk, as Andre wandered around the room, gazing at the posters for wanted criminals in the area. As soon as the report was filed and the man at the desk informed him that someone would be at the house shortly to investigate, Raimond asked, "Where is everyone today? Is there something going on?"

The man looked at him in surprise. "You haven't heard? Nearly all of our taskforce is out hunting for that man." He pointed to a large poster on the wall, and Raimond and Andre both turned to look at it.

"An opera ghost?" Andre laughed. "This country's gone mad…your men are searching for a _phantom_?"

"He's no ghost," the man countered. "He's a man of flesh and blood like any other, we're told, but no one knows his name. For years he terrorized citizens at the Opera Populaire, and you can read the crimes he's guilty of right there on the poster. He was spotted not far from here a few days ago in Parc de Seigneurs, and he attempted to abduct a woman who lived there."

Raimond moved closer to scrutinize the drawings of the man. One of the images depicted the fugitive with one side of his face strangely deformed, and the other showed the man wearing a mask hiding that side of his face. Somehow he had missed the news of this man and his crimes, and he did not recognize the images. Still, something was stirring in his mind, something like a remembrance, but he couldn't make out what it was. "Have either of you seen this man?" the desk sergeant asked them.

Raimond shook his head. "I don't think so, but there is something vaguely familiar about him…I can't quite put my finger on it."

Andre looked up from studying the drawings. "I don't know this person, but like you said, Raimond, there's something familiar about him." He scratched his head. "Strange."

"Well if you gentlemen remember, or see or hear anything of him, come back and report it immediately. This fugitive is extremely dangerous."

Raimond and Andre nodded, then left the police station, making their way back home.

"I don't like this," Andre grumbled as they walked down the street. "I thought Alana would be safe with you, but this city's turned into a madhouse. God, I wish I had a drink right now. I feel like I'm going to die."

"We'll be all right," Raimond said. "You'll see. And I thought you weren't going to drink again."

"I'm not," said Andre firmly. "But it's not easy going without it…it's all I can think about."

"Instead of thinking about what you can't have, you should think of your daughter. Taking care of her, making her proud of you for giving up your addiction."

"Protecting her from myself," Andre added, solemn. "And all the thieves and murderers and kidnappers around here. I wish I could remember something about that man on the poster…it's so strange…I don't think I've ever seen him before, and yet I feel like I have."

"I know what you mean," Raimond said thoughtfully. "Maybe we'll remember in a little while."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

That night, when everyone else was asleep, Alana left the house and crossed the street to the church, eager to see Erik again. It would be so wonderful to be with him, to become absorbed in him and in the music. For the first time in days she'd be able to stop thinking of her father, and escape the dark thoughts and memories. She went to the sanctuary and began to practice singing and playing the piano while she waited for Erik to come. And waited. And waited.

He never came.

The next day, the investigators were supposed to arrive at the house, to look for clues so they could catch the person who had robbed the house. But they didn't come either. Alana happened to catch a glimpse of a newspaper as she and Cerise went to the market that afternoon. The headlines read, "Entire Paris police force still searching for dangerous fugitive," but before she or her cousin had a chance to read further, the last of the newspapers was sold to someone else. At least now she knew the reason the police hadn't showed up at her house. Her thoughts went to Erik, and panic began to overtake her. What if the fugitive had attacked him? Killed him? It was crazy…after all, he'd only been missing for one night, but she couldn't shake off her worry.

The next night, she was at the church early, waiting for Erik.

And once again, he didn't come.

First she worried he'd been murdered by the criminal. Then she considered the possibility that he'd decided he didn't want anything to do with her anymore. Maybe he'd run away with Christine, and forgotten about her. The thought of it had brought her to tears as she waited at the church for the third night in a row of Erik's absence. Then she recalled what Madame Giry had said, about her friend having many enemies. Maybe they'd caught up with him and killed him…maybe the fugitive was one of those enemies.

And then she had another thought: What if _Erik_ was the fugitive the police were searching for?

Days and nights passed, and the date of the ball was approaching. On Sunday, Alana spoke with Damien at the church. He was friendly and courteous, but a bit distracted, and looked as though he felt uncomfortable. She felt ill at ease as well when she remembered their kiss in that garden. Did he still have feelings for her? Was their friendship ruined? And why did he seem so distracted?

That night she went to the church as usual, but Erik still did not come. The only person she found was her father, passed out drunk in the closet where the communion wine was kept.

Those days were a time of darkness and loneliness for Alana. It seemed all were disappointing her, and though her father apologized to everyone for breaking his promise and stealing the wine, she worried he would never be himself again.

And her suspicions about Erik…

Even as the search for the fugitive died down, her worries about him grew stronger.

One night, as she played the piano alone in the sanctuary, she heard the door open. She turned, and there he was.

Erik.

Looking just the same as he always had.

No, wait. There was something different in his eyes, but she didn't know what it was.

It didn't matter.

Alana got up and without another thought, ran to his side and threw her arms around him. It felt so good to be close to him again. Oh, how she'd missed him. And instead of backing away as she'd anticipated, Erik stayed in their embrace, pulling her even closer to him.

"I've missed you so much," she said softly.

"I've missed you too," he replied in his deep, quiet voice.

"But I have to ask you something."

Erik let go of her and stepped back, his blue-green eyes searching her face. "What is it?"

"Who are you?"


	28. Chapter 28

Chapter Twenty-eight

"What?" All at once, Erik was filled with confusion and a sudden fear. His pulse quickened. "What do you mean?" _Why would she ask me that? _

"Who are you, Erik?" she repeated, her eyes earnestly searching his face.

He tore away from her gaze. "I'm…" he struggled for words. _A liar. A murderer. A monster. _"…your friend…aren't I? What's troubling you, Alana?"

The girl sighed. "I'm sorry. It's just that when you didn't come the past nights, I really started to worry about you, what with the fugitive the police are searching for."

Erik tried to bury his feelings deep inside so that the look on his face would not incriminate him. The Phantom had always been good at that. Now he was able to meet Alana's eyes as she spoke, a safe, blank expression on his face.

"I don't know much about the situation," she was saying, "but I know you have enemies, and I thought the fugitive could be one of them. Or that you'd fallen into some other kind of trap. I had no way of knowing. And that's when I realized just how little I know about you."

_Is she suspicious of me? What am I supposed to tell her? _Erik had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach now that was impossible to ignore, but he kept his emotions hidden beneath the surface. "The fact that I have enemies," he began, "has forced me to keep many details of my life a secret. Forced me to stay out of the public eye."

"Why do you have these enemies? What happened?" she asked, clearly distraught.

"I can't tell you," he said quietly.

"But why not? Don't you trust me?" she asked, her sad eyes seeming to plead with him.

He felt a simultaneous tug of pain and a gentle warmth rising in his chest, and allowed his expression to soften. "Of course I do." _Alana was the only person in his life thus far who had not done anything to betray him or let him down somehow. _"But there are some things in this world that cannot ever be spoken. The question is…can you trust me, with my secrets?"

She fixed the fullness of her gaze upon him again, and he met it, studying her face as she studied his. He wished he could tell her, so much. The secrets he hid from her were eating him alive, and yet, he knew he would have to carry them to the grave if he ever wanted to make some sort of life for himself. "I trust you," she whispered finally. "You've given me no specific reason to doubt you, other than your secrets. But I can respect them. Just know that if you feel the time is right, you can tell me anything, anything at all."

_If only you knew all the things I can never tell you. _Erik nodded. "Thank you. Now. Have you been practicing your music in my absence?" He was ready for a change of subject.

Alana grinned. "Of course I have. In fact," her eyes gleamed mischievously, "I've probably accomplished more on my own than I would have if you'd been here!"

"I wouldn't be too certain of that," Erik said. "But let's begin."

She _had _practiced a great deal since he'd been gone. As he listened to her sing some simple but pretty verses, he realized just how much he had missed the sound of her voice. It was not a voice that would ever be heard in an opera, but it was beautiful just the same, soft and sweet, but with a layer of soulful pain beneath the surface. While he accompanied her on the piano, he watched her as she stood beside the instrument singing. Her eyes were closed as she sang, but from her face he could see the concentration and passion she had for this music. It was a special thing, he thought.

_She _was something special. So small, but so strong in spirit. So trusting. So kind.

So…beautiful.

A fair, delicately shaped face. Hair like spun gold.

And then she opened her eyes, looking out across a place only she could see as she sang.

_Why have I never noticed just how lovely her eyes are? They shine brighter than the stars themselves. _

Alana stopped singing, and turned to look at him. Her cheeks were flushed a rosy pink color. "Well? Was I all right?"

Erik abruptly stopped playing, and sat dumbly on the piano bench. There was something going on inside him, something he didn't understand. He remembered the night when Alana had first called him her friend, how she had comforted him, and how overwhelmingly wonderful that had felt. What he was experiencing now was like what had happened then, but it was different. Stronger, more confusing. But there was a feeling that made itself known above all others, a phrase that kept repeating in his mind.

_I once was lost, but now I'm found, was blind, but now I see. _

He vaguely realized those were words from the song Alana had been singing

"Were you all right? You were…" he searched for the right thing to say.

"Flat? Off-key?"

"…wonderful."

Her cheeks flushed even rosier. "Really? Thank you!"

"You're quite welcome," Erik said. "I believe that's enough for tonight. You've done more than well enough. From the looks of things, I'll be forced to go to that ball after all." That would be a bad day indeed; the thought of being in such a bright, crowded place full of strangers sounded unpleasant. But he'd made a promise, and he intended to honor it, to please the girl.

"You remembered!" Alana's face brightened up. "It's getting close! Cerise and I have already decided on our costumes…I'm going to be Snow White, and she's going to be Rose Red. We don't have dresses yet, but Aunt Amelie said we can go to the shop soon and…"

Erik held up a hand, and she stopped speaking. He had a better idea. "Before you buy anything, I know of a place where many costumes are stored. I could find gowns for you and your cousin without cost. I trust you are looking for something white, and something red?"

Alana nodded. "You'd really do that for us?"

"It's no trouble."

She thanked him. "Do you know what you want your costume to be for the ball?"

Since his days and nights back below the opera house, all Erik had done was lie in bed, being tended by Madame Giry and Meg-who'd been forced to join him underground-or drag his injured body to the organ to play. His thoughts had never drifted to the ball. He thought a moment, and then an idea came to him. It was a perfect fit, whether he liked it or not. "Are you familiar with the story of the Half-Man?" he asked her. It was a tale he had read years ago.

She shook her head. "What is it?"

"It's a strange story, but one that has always intrigued me. It's about someone who was only born half a man. One side of him is there, and the other isn't." He could feel the weight of her gaze upon him, and he could tell that she was looking at his mask. His entire being burned with shame. "The Half-Man has special abilities and is dissatisfied with his life, so he conjures up new situations and new images for himself. But try as he might, he can't change his true self. He can't be anything more than a Half-Man…"

Erik broke off. His throat ached and his eyes were burning. He could say no more, and cursed himself for letting his emotions get the better of him. The strength of the Phantom had deserted him once more. At least he wasn't weeping like a small child. The last thing he wanted was for Alana to see him in a state like that again.

"That's very sad," the girl said. "Are you sure you want to come as the Half-Man?" He didn't answer right away. "Erik, are you all right?"

"Yes," he said, too quickly.

Alana raised an eyebrow. "I've been wondering…did anything happen while I was out of town? Why were you gone for so long?"

Erik looked at her miserably. He didn't want to speak any more, but he gave in and told the sorry tale of what had transpired when he'd gone to try again for Christine's heart. "I didn't understand…when I came, she was wearing her wedding dress…the one I made for her, that she never got married in. She told me she'd missed me, but when I asked her to come away, she refused me." Cold anger set in as he told the story. "Then her husband found us. He tried to shoot me, but I escaped. At least until the guard dogs attacked."

Alana, who'd been silent up to this point, gasped. "You're not hurt are you?"

"I'm healing," he said, pulling his black cloak tighter around himself. "I'll be well again soon."

"Thank the Lord," Alana said. "So…what happens now?"

He just looked at her, torn by the emotions at war inside him. "I don't know…for so long, I've felt that I couldn't live without her. That all my life, I've been incomplete. That half of me is missing." His hand unconsciously rose and touched the white mask on the right side of his face. "I thought Christine was my other half. But I was wrong. I am a Half-Man still…"

"No, you're not!" Alana cried, the sharpness of her tone startling him out of his brooding reverie. "You're as much of a man as anyone else I know. Maybe even more! You're intelligent, and talented, and strong, and handsome." At her words, a strange feeling stirred inside Erik's chest, something like happiness and nervousness both at once, and he actually thought he felt his cheeks burning, a strange sensation. "And you're good."

Those three words stopped the world for a moment. All the pleasant feelings were gone, and Erik felt that a venomous sword had been plunged into his heart. He felt absolutely paralyzed by the crushing wave of guilt. _Liar, liar, liar. Good men don't tell lies like you do. What will become of a liar such as you? _

"I think, to some degree, all of us feel incomplete somehow," Alana continued. "But it is possible to fill that void."

Erik faced her. "How?" He could hear the desperation in his own voice.

She walked over to one of the pews and pulled out a book with the words _Holy Bible _written across the front cover. She sat down next to him on the piano bench, their backs to the instrument.

"Don't look at it like that," she scolded as he eyed the book suspiciously. "You should give it a chance. Have you ever read it before?"

He shook his head slowly.

"Try it. You may find what you're looking for inside."

Erik took the Bible, but his mind had begun working strangely again. _Maybe I don't have to look anywhere else…maybe the answer to everything is standing right in front of me, more beautiful than ever…_ "Have you ever felt the way I have?" he asked. "Like there's a void inside you, just waiting to be filled?"

Alana looked down at the floor. "If I'm being honest, yes. I have my faith, and I have family who loves me, and I know I'm just being selfish, always wanting more…but I do feel like there's something that I'm missing, that I want more than anything else in the world."

She understood him, Erik thought. Alana really understood. "And what would that be?"

But the girl just glanced briefly up at him, then looked at the floor again, her face downcast.

"If you don't wish to tell me, that's all right," he said.

They were both quiet for a while. Suddenly, Erik realized he couldn't stand to see Alana's face so sad any longer. He wanted, needed, to see her smile. He rose to his feet, and started walking toward the sanctuary door.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"Follow me and see." He held out a hand to her. "You'll have to stay close." He began to feel a thrilling sense of anticipation, and he almost smiled.

Alana took his hand rather hesitantly. "But we can't go anywhere…we'll get caught!"

Erik turned to her and shook his head. He opened his cloak, revealing the bright blue and red of the soldiers' uniform he was wearing.

"Where did you get that?" She looked at him in shock.

"I borrowed it."

"You didn't hurt anyone for it, did you?"

He made himself look taken aback at that question. "Not permanently," he said, putting his hood up.

When he'd ventured above ground for the first time since returning to the Opera House, he'd almost immediately run into a soldier investigating without backup. He'd dispatched the other man with a quick fist to the skull, and he'd felt the Phantom savoring the rather sickening sound of the blow.

Erik had been about to continue on his way when he realized how much trouble he could save himself by taking the soldier's uniform for himself. He dragged the man back into the entrance to the underground passageways, stripped him of his shirt and jacket, and put them on himself. Some of the other soldiers he had seen had worn cloaks, so he could wear his hood and hide his masked face, while wearing the blue and red for all to see. Now no one could suspect him. He could even go back to the stable where he'd been boarding Raven and ride her to the church.

That's exactly what he'd done. When he and Alana came out the back of the church, the girl's eyes lit up when she saw the black horse standing in the empty side street. "Raven!" she exclaimed in a loud whisper. She went up and patted the horse's neck. "I've missed her."

Erik climbed into the saddle. "Can I help you up?" Alana nodded as she put her foot into the stirrup, and he swung her onto Raven's back behind him. He tried not to think too much about her arms tight around his waist as they rode off down the street.

"Can't you tell me where we're going?" she asked.

"No," he said. He had passed the place earlier that night on the way to the church, but he didn't know its name. Living underground for so long, he'd seen little of Paris, but he had a good sense of direction and always remembered the way to the few places he had been. "By the way, if anyone asks, you're my prisoner."

Alana laughed behind him, and Erik nearly chuckled along with her. Then he realized he couldn't remember ever making someone laugh before. It was a good feeling, he decided. He nudged Raven into a gentle canter as they rode through the city streets. They passed several soldiers and gendarmes along the way, but the officers only paused to direct puzzled, and then envious glances at Erik. _It was a good idea to steal this officer's uniform, _he thought. _Perhaps Alana and I can see the city together in this way every night…_

They had entered a suburban area of the city, similar to Parc de Seigneurs, where the buildings were spread farther apart, many replaced by gardens and trees. As they approached a stone wall and a large cast iron gate, Erik dismounted, pulling out a lock pick.

"What is this place?" Alana asked.

"Wait and see." Erik picked the lock and pushed the gate open, then took Raven's bridle and led her inside. He heard Alana's sudden intake of breath, and he nearly gasped himself when he saw where they had come.

They were in the most beautiful garden he'd ever seen. He hadn't seen many in his life, but he could tell this one was special. It had to be old, too, for the trees were tall and wide, and the elegantly sculpted statues and sparkling fountains had an air of antiquity to them.

Alana slid off Raven's back and started exploring the gardens, looking absolutely enraptured by the beauty of the place. Erik left his horse grazing beneath a tree and followed after the girl. They walked through the park in silence, just gazing at the loveliness around them. Erik cursed the past, that had had him imprisoned underground for so long, missing out on wonderful things such as this.

In time they came to a tall, rather steep hill. "This is what we came here for," Erik said. "I saw the top of the hill as I was riding to meet you tonight." He turned to face her. "The view should be incredible."

Alana grinned. "What are we waiting for, then?" She started up the hill and he followed, his head spinning with wild, confusing thoughts. He was strangely anxious, and yet he was…_happy…_he thought…_at peace. _There wasn't a time he could recall when he'd felt like this. _I like it,_ he decided. _I think. But what in God's name is going on?_

As they walked they chatted idly, Erik mostly responding to Alana's comments and questions about things they'd seen. His mind was so out of sorts that he could scarcely speak.

Finally, they neared the top of the hill. "Almost there!" Alana said, somewhat out of breath. She reached out and tugged on Erik's sleeve, smiling. "Race you to the top!" She picked up her skirts and dashed forward. Suddenly seized with excitement and a spirit of competitiveness, he rushed after her.

She was quicker than he thought she would be, and he was not yet recovered to his full strength, still limping slightly. "I'm going to beat you there!" Alana called out, laughing. But Erik soon closed the distance between them and was running alongside her.

"I wouldn't bet on that!" He was just about to increase his speed when without warning, he was crashing to the ground face first. Erik put out his hands to stop his fall and looked up.

"I would!" Alana was standing at the top of the hill, laughing at him.

_This is embarrassing, _Erik thought, _bested by a woman!_ Ordinarily he would have been furious with himself for losing a contest with anyone, especially a woman, but this time he dusted himself off and got to his feet, allowing a half-smile to cross his face. "You run a good race, I must admit," he said as he took the last steps up the hill. "But a crooked one. You tripped me!"

Alana didn't answer him; she had her back to him now.

Within seconds, Erik understood her silence.

From the top of the hill was the most spectacular view he had ever seen. The two of them looked out over the Seine River, which ran across the park and wound throughout the city, which lay below them as far as the eye could see. Everything was still and quiet, the hill like an island of serenity in the midst of the urban sprawl. The night sky was full of stars, and as Erik looked down at the river, he could see them reflected in the water.

Alana turned to him, breathless. "I think this is the most beautiful place I've ever been." Her eyes were shining brighter than ever; she belonged in this haven of beauty. Her fair hair had come unpinned and lay in curls across her shoulders.

Erik nodded. "I feel the same way."

They sank down onto the grass, their backs against a tree. Erik was conscious of their shoulders touching and instead of moving away as he once would have, he decided to stay where he was. The two of them looked up at the night sky, and he pointed out the constellations to her. He'd often watched the stars from the roof of the opera house, and he knew each and every one by heart. They were like old friends.

"Looking up at the stars always makes me feel so small," he confessed. "Like I'm just one insignificant speck in the enormity of the universe."

"Really?" Alana sounded surprised. "When I see them, I feel loved. Like I'm important."

She was so different than he was, Erik thought. Her ways were foreign to him, and yet, he reflected, they felt like home. He wanted to know more about the way she thought. "Why's that?"

Alana seemed to think for a moment before she spoke. "Because the same God who created all the universe, each and every amazing star, somehow decided to take the time and create me…and you." She smiled at him, then turned her gaze back to the sky. Erik's however, was fixed upon her. "If you look at it like that, it makes you think…if He made a special effort to give us life…then there must be a reason for everything we do, everything that happens to us." She looked back at him. "Do you know what I mean?"

Erik blinked at her. "I've never thought of it like that before. But…"

"But what?"

He looked away, and realized that he had no answer. "I don't know."

They were quiet for a while, enjoying the view and each other's company, though their closeness was driving Erik mad for some reason.

Finally she spoke again. "Erik, are you glad you came to Paris?"

He looked out at the city below them. "At first I was," he answered, "and at some points since then I've wished that I'd never come." He faced her again. "But now…now, honestly I can't think of anywhere I'd rather be." It was so hard to look away from her. _How on earth did it take so long for me to realize just how beautiful she is?_

"Me neither," Alana said. "Can I ask you another question?"

He smiled a little and let out a breath. "You have so many questions."

"Well, would you rather sit here in silence?" she asked, a bit indignant.

"The silence can be nice sometimes."

She groaned, and he actually laughed, very softly.

"You may ask me what you wish."

Alana paused a moment before speaking, her expression serious. "I've been wondering…why did you save me, that first time? You didn't know me, you didn't know my father or what you were up against…you were heading in the opposite direction. What made you turn back?"

Erik just stared at her for a moment, then said, "It was the right thing to do…anyone with a conscience would have done what I did."

"Not everyone has a conscience," Alana muttered. "Just think of those men who attacked us on the road. They couldn't have had one. A conscience is what separates a good man from an evil man."

_That's not true. I may have what you call a conscience, but anyone who knows what I've done knows that I am a wicked man, evil to the core. _"I couldn't let him keep hurting you," said Erik. "I know what it's like to be treated like that."

Alana's eyes widened. "You do?"

Erik's throat tightened. He tried to push back the memories, but even now, in this incredible place with her, the flashbacks of being beaten, blood running down his back from whip lashes that burned like fire, were hard to ignore. "Yes," he whispered, cringing inwardly.

"I'm so sorry. Do you want to talk about it?"

"No." Erik closed his eyes and rested his head back against the tree, forcing himself to forget. He made himself focus on the present, the peaceful place they were in, the girl beside him, so close.

They were quiet for a long time, until not surprisingly, Alana broke the

silence. He opened his eyes and glanced sideways at her; she looked thoughtful, pensive.

"You know, I remember something strange you said the first night we went to the church…you said something about being unworthy."

_Oh no. _"You remembered."

"Why would you say something like that?" Alana looked genuinely puzzled. "There's no blessing you're unworthy of…you're a good man, Erik."

_You're a liar. A thief, kidnapper, a murderer, and above all a blasted liar. A wicked man. _Erik made himself smile ever so slightly at Alana. "I've had a good teacher."

She smiled back at him, blushing a little.

"Can I ask _you _a question?" There was something he had wanted to know for a long time.

Surprise flashed across Alana's face, but she laughed. "Of course."

Erik touched his mask, on the side of his face farthest from her. "Why is it that you've never once asked me to take my mask off? Or tried to take it off yourself?"

The girl shrugged. "I feel like if you wanted me to see what's beneath it, you would show me. If you don't want me to see, though, that's all right." She sighed. "It's not going to change anything."

"What do you mean, it's not going to change anything? It's the most horrible, wretched sight…"

Alana grabbed his shoulder and looked him square in the eyes. "Don't talk like that! Whether you're wearing a mask or not, no matter what you look like, you're always going to be Erik. That's all that matters, isn't it?

His hand still on the mask, Erik swallowed hard and asked, "If I take off this mask…now…can you promise me that you will not fear or hate what you see?"

She just stared at him, her hand still on his shoulder. He could see that she was slightly worried.

"_Can_ you?" His heart was racing madly; the fear of how she would react was absolutely terrifying. He had an overwhelming sense of dread, like what he was going to do would destroy everything. But he took the mask, and lifted it ever so slowly; he had nearly pulled it away from his face when he heard someone shout out,

"Hello! You there!"

His heart nearly exploded. He scrambled to put the mask back on, smashing it painfully into his face. He and Alana both leapt to their feet and spun around to see what appeared to be a gardener, who'd just made it to the top of the hill. Erik looked up at the sky, his pulse quickening again. It was nearly sunrise…they had been out all night.

"You need to leave now," the middle-aged man was saying angrily as he stormed towards them. "Just because you're a soldier doesn't mean you and your woman can come here whenever you feel the…" Suddenly the old man's face paled. He put a hand over his chest. "Oh my God! You're not with the army, or the police…I recognize you!…"

Erik had no time to think. He rushed forward and dealt a powerful blow to the man's head before he had a chance to run away. Alana screamed, and the man crumpled to the ground unconscious. The second man tonight.

Alana ran forward and bent over the man, eyes wide with fear. "What in the world is going on?" she cried, trembling.

"That man would destroy us." Erik took her by the arm and pulled her down the hill after him. "Come, we must get you back home. Now."

"But…"

"Faster! There's no time to lose." Still holding onto her arm, they ran down the hill and found Raven near where they'd left her. Soon they were galloping down the shaded avenues and back into the city. All good feelings were gone, replaced by overwhelming anxiety. He _had _to get Alana back before she was missed, he _had _to get back to the opera house before the streets became too full of people.

"Is that man going to be all right?" Alana said in his ear as they charged down the lane.

"Yes."

"Why did he want to hurt you?"

"Many do."

"But why?"

"That's what I've been asking myself my entire life," he said bitterly.

Morning drew ever nearer, the sky slowly growing pink and orange. It was going to be a breathtaking sunrise, but Erik did not have the breath to lose. He was fully concentrated on navigating the roads and reaching Sacree Boulevard as quickly as possible. By now a few people had already begun to venture out of their homes.

They stopped in front of the church before the sun had risen too far, and hurried around to the back of the Valjean house. Erik glared up at the sky, cursing the day for bringing his night to an end. It had been the best night he could remember. As soon as he thought it, and gazed at the girl walking ahead of him, he felt that strange nervous yet somewhat happy feeling coming back.

Alana stopped and smiled at him. He felt warm all over. "You've been quite the gentleman tonight, Erik." She paused and gave a wry grin. "Until you knocked out that gardener. But, it was nice of you to take me home, and walk me to the door…except for the fact that I'm climbing in through the hall window so as not to wake anyone."

"It seems I've been a bad influence on you," he said. Part of him was joking, but the other was bitterly serious. _I'm no good for someone like you. _

"Oh, don't say that. Until next time…" She went to the window and then turned back. "I had a wonderful time tonight, Erik. Thank you."

Erik stepped forward, reaching out and gently touching her face as he looked deep into her eyes. He could get lost in them…no, he was _found_ in them.

There was something he wanted to do, but something else was holding him back.

"No. _Thank you_," he said quietly, stroking her cheek gently with a finger. He reached down and took her hand, leaving a soft kiss upon it. "Until next time." He tore his gaze away from her, bowed, and left, as she stood still, smiling wistfully after him.

Her words rang in his head. Maybe he could learn how to be a gentleman after all. Maybe he had as good a chance as any man to live a normal life.

But only she could make it possible.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

A few weeks later, a lone figure walked through a cemetery.

It was a cloudy day. It always seemed to be dark when Damien came here. The young Comte glanced up at the black clouds forming in the sky above him. A breeze ruffled his black hair, bringing the first chill of autumn. Summer would be gone before he knew it, replaced by cold and darkness.

He walked slowly forward, his expression that of a dead man. The cemetery had a strange effect on him; he sometimes felt he belonged beneath the earth, buried in the very grave he stood before now. It ached to look at any of the graves in his family plot. Damien was a man who loved his family more than anything, and always missed them when they were gone. He'd long been missing his parents, who had been staying in the country since before the Commune.

But nothing hurt Damien more than to look upon the headstone before him, to read the words carved there, to stare at the little portrait. The blue flowers he'd been carrying slipped from his grasp and fell beside the grave.

Damien sank to his knees, tears starting to blur his vision. He blinked through them and they trickled down his face as he reached his hand out to touch the cool stone. His fingers traced the portrait of the little boy and the inscription carved into the dark gray marble.

_A good son to us all. And a beloved brother. _

Another flood of tears blinded Damien as he knelt on the ground alone. Through his blurred sight he glimpsed something red fluttering through the air down to the ground. He blinked and picked up the first autumn leaf to fall from any tree in Paris, a vivid red one. He turned and faced the headstone.

"The leaves are starting to fall, Avery," he said softly. "You know what that means. Happy birthday, little brother. You're certainly getting to be a big boy…" He found himself unable to say any more, and he buried his face in his hands. Just last year, Damien and Avery had celebrated their birthdays together in one grand ball, his family's mansion packed with men, women, and scores of little children. It had been one of the best nights of both of their lives. But this year, Damien would have to try and celebrate without Avery there with him.

Minutes, or hours later-he couldn't know for sure-he looked down at the flowers he'd dropped and picked them up, placing them directly in front of the headstone, alongside the first fallen leaf.

"I brought you some bluebells," the Comte said. "They're your favorite. I remember." He allowed himself a small smile. "Do you remember when you asked me… 'if they're bells, why don't they ring?'" Damien could see it in his mind's eye as though it had happened yesterday; he could hear little Avery's voice in his head. "And I told you that they _did _ring, but only the fairies and the angels could hear them, whenever the wind blew…" A gentle breeze floated by, and Damien choked on his words. "I guess…you can…hear them now." He could scarcely speak. "Beautiful…isn't it?"

A few others had arrived to leave flowers for their lost loved ones, and they watched the Comte de Bellamy as they passed. But he didn't care who saw him like this. Not now.

"I know you must be having a wonderful time up there, Avery. But all of us down here have been missing you, especially me, little brother. I suppose it's too much to ask for you to come back to me. So you just keep on having your fun. I'll try to get by somehow." The young man stared up at the dark clouds and felt a drizzle of rain against his face. He closed his eyes. "And I promise you one thing, Avery. The man who killed you…I won't let him get away with it. He'll pay for the things he's done." He opened his hazel eyes. They were burning with hatred and vengeance. "You will be avenged. I swear it, by you and all the angels."

Damien got to his feet, tore his gaze away from the grave, and walked back through the cemetery to the carriage that drove him away from that dark, lonely place to his family's glorious estate.

_Red Riding Hood? _

_Music of My Heart -Nsync_

_You- Rascal Flatts_

_The Magic- Fiona Wright_


	29. The Ball

**Here it is, the much anticipated (0r dreaded!) chapter in which our characters go to the ball! Happy Valentine's day everyone!**

Chapter Twenty-nine

The Ball

"_Life may not be the party we hoped for, but while we're here we should dance."-_Proverb

"Do help me, Cerise!" Amelie exclaimed. "Stop looking at yourself in the mirror!"

Cerise jolted back to attention and placed a hairpin in her mother's outstretched hand. "Oh, sorry. It's just that I've never worn something so beautiful before…"

"You two are going to be the most elegant girls at that ball." Amelie was smiling proudly as she looked at her daughter and her niece, whose hair she was styling. "You look as fine as any ladies or duchesses, princesses, even!" After the last of the hairpins were placed in Alana's hair, the women stood in front of the mirror one last time.

Alana could hardly recognize herself. The gowns that Erik had found her and Cerise were incredible…where in the world had he found dresses like that without cost, without anyone having need of them? Hers was white with a sweetheart neckline, a full skirt, and a bodice adorned with what had to be real, tiny pearls and diamonds. Cerise's gown was much like hers, but it had a deep ruby color that somehow went perfectly with her dark auburn curls that were piled on top of her head. Both of them had little white flower petals in their hair.

"Come on now, Snow White, Rose Red. The carriage will be coming soon!" Amelie took the two girls by the hand and led them out to the parlor, where Raimond and Andre were sitting.

Raimond rose when they entered the room, grinning warmly. "You two look wonderful!"

Andre suddenly stumbled to his feet, his eyes wide, mystified. He stared at Alana, and she immediately looked down at the floor, unable to meet his gaze. She felt guilty about not facing him; he really _had _been trying to make amends since the incident when he'd stolen the communion wine. He'd been doing little odd jobs at the church and the house, and taking care of the horse. Though he still had a sour demeanor often, and his temper occasionally flared up, Andre had been more stable than Alana had seen him in years. And yet, even today it was painful simply to look at him, wondering if she'd ever be able to feel safe around him again.

Amelia must have noticed the tension in the room, for she sent the men out to bring the girls' luggage from their rooms, and departed to the kitchen, leaving Alana and Cerise alone in the parlor.

"You don't look very excited," Cerise said, looking eager and concerned about her cousin at the same time.

"Oh," Alana sighed. "I am. I'm just thinking."

"Me too. Tonight is all I can think about." Cerise's eyes were lively. "I can't wait for the dancing. I hope…" her voice became wistful. "I hope the Comte de Bellamy will ask me to dance. Though I suppose that's dreaming too far…"

"Don't be silly," Alana retorted. "Once Damien sees you, he'll ask you to dance with him a hundred times over! I have a feeling something will happen between you two tonight." She grinned.

"If he doesn't spend all his time dancing with _you_," Cerise said. Alana couldn't tell if her cousin sounded resentful or not.

"Oh he won't." Alana laughed it off. "I'll have Erik, remember?"

Cerise nodded. "I'll finally get to meet your mystery man!"

There came a thud from behind them. Andre had set their two suitcases down and was standing with his arms crossed, looking at Alana. "What mystery man?"

Alana paled and her throat tightened as she looked away.

"He's the gentleman who'll be escorting us to the ball tonight," Cerise answered.

Andre grimaced, his eyes suspicious. "How do I know the two of you will be safe with this man?" His tone was as concerned and fatherly as Raimond's.

For some reason, that angered Alana. "We'll be no less safe with him than we would be with you!" she snapped, glaring defiantly.

Her father stepped back as if he'd been physically struck by her words. He seemed to shrink inside himself. Immediately Alana's heart stung with guilt, and she got up and looked out the window to distract herself. "Oh," she breathed. "The carriage

is here." Damien had promised them a carriage would be sent from his house to take them to his estate that night.

Wordlessly, Cerise ran forward and threw the door open. Andre picked up the suitcases and hurried outside without looking at Alana. Soon all of them were standing outside. Alana hugged her aunt and uncle goodbye, thanking them for all their help, and then she found herself standing in front of her father, and this time she could not escape from his gaze. His dark eyes held deep sorrow and pain.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

Andre shook his head. "No, I am. You go and have your fun." He nodded to the carriage, and sighed. "You look so beautiful, Alana. Looking at you is like…" he struggled for words. "It's like seeing your mother again."

Alana's eyes watered a little. "T-thank you," she stammered.

"You're welcome, sweetheart," he said, in the softest tone she'd heard from him in years.

Abruptly, she turned away from him so that she would not cry. It hurt too much.

She opened the carriage door and stepped in without help, and after a final goodbye Cerise followed her.

They were settling into the seat when Cerise gasped.

Erik was sitting across from them, the right side of his face hidden by a black half mask instead of the usual white one.

"Good afternoon," he said.

"Hello," Alana said with a wry smile, already feeling better now that he was here. "I'm not even going to ask how you got into this carriage without any of us seeing you." He never ceased to amaze her. "Oh, by the way, Erik, this is my cousin, Cerise Valjean, who has a tendency to be easily startled. Cerise, meet Erik, who has a tendency to appear out of nowhere."

Her cousin smiled politely, the color starting to return to her white face. "It's nice to finally make your acquaintance.

Erik gave a slow nod. "Likewise."

They had a long carriage ride ahead of them, and much of the trip was uncomfortably quiet. It was because Cerise was there, Alana realized. Before, when she and Erik had been together it had just been the two of them, alone. Erik was always reserved, but she'd forgotten just how shy he was. He seemed to eye her cousin nervously, and Cerise did likewise. She didn't seem to be able to trust a man in a mask. But then again, her life hadn't been saved by one of them.

Alana looked at him without fear, even though his black mask and his dark cloak would have had an ominous appearance to anyone else.

"Are you wearing your costume, Erik?" she asked, desperate to break the awkward silence. "Did you ever decide what to wear?"

"Yes." Erik pushed his cloak back, revealing a suit that looked incredibly fine.

Or…two suits, joined together. The left side appeared to be a white admiral's uniform, adorned with medals, with a silver epaulette on his shoulder. The right side was identical in form, but without marks or insignia, and the fabric and epaulette were black as night. The suit was molded closely to his body, and he wore tall black boots, and a sword at his hip. On any other man, the costume might have looked unusual, but on Erik, even sitting down, it looked spectacular.

"Incredible," Alana said. Cerise seemed impressed as well, smiling and nodding her approval. "Where in the world did you find that costume?"

"The same place I found yours," he replied. "Though I had to make some changes."

"Obviously. How did you do something like that?"

"I had help," he said vaguely.

Alana nodded. "So…I take it you're dressed as the Half-Man, like you were talking about before?" It saddened her that he would take the story so personally, and even chosen to dress as the character.

"Yes."

"I'm sure yours will be the best costume there." That was the last of the conversation on the long ride. After watching the world pass by through the window, Alana and Cerise both fell asleep, while Erik quietly read from the book of Edgar Allan Poe stories that he had brought.

Alana woke to Erik softly calling her name, his book finally set aside. "We're here," he said.

Immediately she looked out the window and gasped. The sun was setting now, and they were riding down a wide cobblestone road, passing by orchards of fruit trees in a large valley of green grass with rolling hills in the distance. But the landscape was not what Alana was looking at. She sat open-mouthed, staring at the monumental chateau their carriage was taking them to. "Oh my goodness," she whispered, looking at Erik in disbelief. "_It's like a palace." _She nudged Cerise in the ribs, jolting her from her sleep. After blinking awake, Cerise did exactly as her cousin had done. Neither one of them could stop smiling, and the carriage was suddenly filled with their excited chatter and laughter. While Erik looked out of the window at the chateau, Alana thought she saw him roll his eyes at them. He clearly wasn't used to being around multiple young women.

Before they knew it, the three of them were standing in front of the brightly lit mansion. Alana looked up, up, and up; the building seemed never ending. She couldn't imagine a person actually living in a place so huge. Several servants came forward to carry their suitcases to their rooms, while another asked them to follow him into the house. Cerise squeezed Alana's hand, and they both grinned as they hurried inside, Erik following solemnly behind them.

Once they walked through one of the tall double doors, they stood in a room with soaring ceilings and an enormous crystal chandelier, art lining the walls on all sides, a spectacular double staircase at the far side of the room, leading to what must have been dozens and dozens of rooms. Alana stole a glance at Erik; he was wide-eyed and speechless, taking in the beauty and the architecture, completely blind to everything else.

The servant cleared his throat. "If you wish to follow me to the ballroom…" he motioned for them to come with him, and dumbly they followed.

Even the hallways were beautiful, Alana thought, as they walked after their guide. Damien's house in Paris was stunning, but this chateau had such an overwhelming sense of old, old grandeur. Alana found herself feeling very small, a foreigner in a place like this. The servant stopped and pointed at one of the doors along the wall. "If you ladies wish to make use of the dressing room, it's right through this door. There is an entrance

to the ballroom from there, should you wish to join the party when you're finished. Monsieur," he said to Erik, "if you'll follow me we can head to the main entrance to the ballroom."

Cerise and Alana went into the dressing room, which was already full of women, talking amongst themselves or sitting in front of vanities laid out with cosmetics and hair care products, applying powders and rouges and putting the finishing touches on their elaborate hairstyles. Their costumes were extravagant; Alana glimpsed several fairy tale or Shakespearean characters, as well as some historical figures, including what appeared to be a Marie Antoinette. The lady dressed as the infamous queen was all too familiar. Alana cringed inwardly. _Seraphine. _

As she and her cousin touched up their appearances and smoothed the skirts of their dresses, Alana hoped and prayed that Seraphine would not notice her, but in the mirror she glimpsed a woman in a painstakingly styled powdered wig and voluminous pink dress studded with diamonds gliding towards them.

"Why, if it isn't _Mademoiselle _Alana Valjean," she said loudly, grinning in the mirror's reflection as Cerise tucked away some loose strands of Alana's hair. She clearly emphasized Alana's ordinary title, to make it known to everyone in the room that she was not one of them. "What a pleasant surprise to see you here. And you must be the _Reverend's daughter_," she said to Cerise.

"Yes," Cerise said, smiling politely at the noblewoman. "It's nice to finally meet you. You're Comtesse Seraphine d'Auvergne, am I right?"

Seraphine nodded nonchalantly and looked the two girls up and down. "What lovely costumes you're wearing. Wherever did you have them made?"

Alana swallowed. "A friend of ours found them for us, actually."

Seraphine grinned oddly again. "How convenient. Well, the two of you look positively charming. Why, anyone at the ball could be fooled into thinking you truly are noblewomen!" She laughed and left the room.

Cerise looked at Alana quizzically. "You met her at Damien's, didn't you?" Alana nodded. "Was she…mocking us? For not being aristocrats?"

"Yes. That seems to be what Seraphine does to get her fulfillment in life." She sighed. "But we shouldn't pay her any attention. Let's go!"' Alana got up and linked arms with her cousin, the two of them moving towards the door. After a moment of breathless anticipation, they pushed it open.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Erik was standing on the shore of a sea of light and music. Leaning against one of many marble columns, he took in everything around him. The splendor of the massive ballroom, with its columns, crystal chandeliers, and Baroque painted ceiling dome. The people, in elaborate, exquisitely made costumes, dancing in the center of the room or conversing along the sides. He was not used to so much noise, or so many people in one place. It was unnerving, and yet it was spectacular. The masquerade balls at the Opera Populaire had been impressive, but this celebration was already surpassing those by far with its sheer beauty and magnitude. He saw people's faces, laughing and smiling as they talked, sipped champagne, or sampled hor d'oeuvres.

_So this is the kind of life I've been missing, _he thought. He remembered what his mother had said years ago, about his father being a very wealthy man. If his father had had enough decency, enough of a heart to love his mother, and love Erik too, then maybe he would have grown up in a world like this, instead of in a filthy slum, an animal's cage, and underground.

As he looked out at the revelers, something caught his eye. He couldn't help but stare.

There was a man dressed like him.

Not as the Half-Man.

As the Phantom of the Opera.

Evening dress, with a cape and a white half-mask. It was unmistakable. How many other men dressed as he did? Erik saw another glimmer of white and couldn't believe his eyes. There was another…no, at least three men, dressed as _him. _It seemed he'd become something of a legend. It was strange. He didn't know what to make of it, but he breathed a sigh of relief. Chances were no one would recognize him tonight.

"Erik!" He turned, and saw Alana and Cerise making their way through the crowd, grinning from ear to ear, their eyes darting excitedly about the room, taking in the sights and sounds. "What do you think?" Alana asked when she and her cousin were standing next to him.

He hesitated for a moment before he spoke. How could he describe such a scene? "It's certainly a new experience," he said. "Very interesting."

"Alana Valjean!" came a man's voice before the girl had a chance to respond. Erik watched as she turned to face a young dark-haired man dressed as a Roman army commander. There was something familiar about him, he thought, and wondered if he'd run into him before.

Alana curtsied. "Good evening, Comte. Happy birthday." Erik couldn't help but feel a pang of jealousy as the man bent to kiss Alana's hand.

"Yes, happy birthday," Cerise echoed, her eyes betraying her infatuation with the man. This must be the Comte de Bellamy, Erik realized, the friend of Alana's who'd invited him here. The man Madame Giry had said wished him dead more than any other. Looking at him, it was impossible to tell such a thing. He had such a brightness about him, a cheerfulness in speech and countenance. But Erik knew more than anyone how easy deception could be. He would keep a wary eye on the Comte de Bellamy tonight.

"And you must be Erik," the Comte said, stepping up closer to him. He extended his hand. "Alana's told me so much about you. It's a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance." After a moment of hesitation, Erik shook his hand. Despite the warmth of the room, Comte Damien's hands were oddly cold. The other man seemed to be waiting for a response, but Erik did not give one. He did not have anything to say to him; he just nodded politely, wondering what exactly Alana had told this man about him.

"Well, I hope you have a wonderful evening," the Comte said, a strange look flashing across his eyes for a second before vanishing into cheerfulness again as a tall woman, flamboyantly dressed in a bright pink gown, came towards them. Judging by the extravagance of her dress, and the meticulously styled powdered wig on her head, she had come as Marie Antoinette. "Seraphine!" Comte Damien exclaimed. "You're looking quite well this evening. You remember Alana, don't you?"

Erik saw the woman look Alana up and down with a condescending eye, and he felt heat rise up in his chest.

"Oh yes of course I remember _Mademoiselle _Valjean. I had the pleasure of speaking with her and her cousin earlier this evening." She smiled at Alana and Cerise, looking falsely cheerful.

"And this is Monsieur Erik," Damien gestured from Seraphine to him.

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance." Seraphine curtsied, while Erik nodded to her. When she'd risen to her full height again Erik felt her look him up and down briefly, but with none of the condescension she'd shown for Alana. Her eyes lingered upon him for longer than he cared for, and he glanced away. He didn't like the woman. She reminded him of a certain diva he had despised for four excruciatingly long seasons back at the opera house.

The music had just stopped, and the dancers stood still and applauded. "Ah. Excellent," said Damien. "Alana, may I have the honor of sharing the next dance with you?"

A jealous knife pierced Erik's chest. _No, you may not have the honor. _He looked at Alana, willing her to say no.

"Oh…my apologies. I've never danced before, and I've promised Erik that we'll teach each other to dance," Alana said. Erik almost smiled as pride filled him. _She would rather dance with me than with the host of this grand ball. _"At least for this first dance, though I'd be delighted to dance with you some other time this evening."

Erik thought he saw Damien's face darken for a moment.

"Very well. The next dance is a slow waltz, quite simple to pick up. I wish you two luck." He turned to Seraphine. "May I have the honor?"

The other woman, whose expression had visibly soured when Damien asked Alana to dance, immediately smiled again and took his hand, the two of them walking out into the center of the ballroom. They didn't see Cerise, who'd been entirely forgotten, look down at the floor, her face sad. Erik pitied her. It seemed she had feelings for the Comte, and he was either oblivious or didn't care. He knew how that felt.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

"Who was that man?" Seraphine asked Damien as they waltzed across the ballroom floor. In the long years they had known each other, the Comte had danced with her so many times that they moved in perfect rhythm, each knowing exactly how the other would move.

Damien rolled his eyes. "No one of any consequence."

"Oh." Seraphine's eyes lost a little of their interest. "Well, he is quite handsome. That face of his could get him far in life."

He laughed harder than he'd intended to. "I highly doubt that."

"Then why did you invite him?"

"Only to please Alana Valjean…" Damien began.

Seraphine frowned. "And why would you want to do that?"

He bristled with irritation. "Because I care about her, that's why."

"Oh." Seraphine gave him a hard look and continued their dance in silence.

After a while, Damien glanced across the ballroom, searching the crowd of swirling dancers and conversing partygoers along the walls, and there they were. The madman, looking eerily sane, was talking to Alana, and that filled him with jealousy. After the failed kiss weeks ago, and seeing the way she looked at "Erik", as she called him, he knew that her heart belonged to that liar and murderer, and he had to help her.

"Damien, look at me."

He faced Seraphine, startled by her stern tone.

"Don't pay them any heed. Let the two nobodies be together." Her expression was cold and hard.

"She's _not _a nobody!" Damien burst out, causing a few of the nearby dancers to shoot him alarmed glances. "She's a wonderful woman, a better one than you'll ever be!"

Seraphine gasped and her wide eyes looked hurt. But he had to say it. "I _will _get her to fall in love with me eventually. I'll wait as long as it takes, and I don't care what anyone else says about it. So you should just give up this…this _quest _of yours!"

"What are you talking about?" she asked, indignant.

"Honestly, Seraphine. Don't think I don't know you've been trying to seduce me for years now."

Her jaw dropped.

"I know your family and my family are close, and for all our lives, they've just assumed that the two of us would be married. But never once did _any _of you ask what _I _wanted!"

He stopped dancing where they were and stalked off to find himself a drink, while Seraphine, her eyes stinging with tears, whispered a "happy birthday" as he left.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

"Just look at her," Alana said with rapture, as she watched her cousin dancing in the arms of a handsome, rather roguish-looking aristocrat dressed as a pirate. "She looks like she's having a wonderful time out there. I told her she'd have fun, regardless of who she is or isn't dancing with."

Erik didn't know how to respond to that. He rubbed his neck nervously. _Oh, why did I come here? _It was a beautiful place, but the overwhelming amount of people was getting to him. He couldn't shake the fear of someone recognizing him in spite of his costume, or worse, two certain people he knew being there. Or the fear of having to dance. Embarrassment would be inevitable.

Then, the music ended and the dancers stopped and applauded the musicians. The people dispersed, beginning a search for new partners. Out of the corner of his eye, Erik saw a gentleman making his way toward Alana, eyes bright with anticipation. He stepped closer to Alana and with an icy glare sent the other man in the opposite direction.

"Well?" Alana turned to face him, and he tried not to stare at her too obviously. She was absolutely stunning tonight in her beautiful ivory gown, white flowers in her golden hair. "Shall we join the others?" She reached out her small, slender hand, and he took it, leading her out near the dance floor.

His heart was racing from the feeling of her hand in his, and from the realization that he was about to dance, with no idea how. "A waltz is a three step dance," he said, both to her and to himself. "Slow. It can't be too difficult. Can it?"

Alana shrugged, and there was no time to think things through. The music began to play softly, and the couples began to waltz. Erik swallowed, and took Alana's hand, just barely resting his other hand on her waist as she reached up and put her hand on his shoulder. He glanced at the other dancers to see what they were doing, and took the first step of the dance. Alana stepped back abruptly, and he moved to the right with her following carefully, her eyes serious with concentration.

Erik looked away to observe the dancers again, but before he knew it, he collided with someone else's shoulders. A disgruntled man turned around, looked him up and down, scowling, but turned back to his companion and resumed the dance. Erik turned to face Alana, who was covering her mouth, muffling the sound of her laughter.

"It's not funny," Erik muttered, but that only made her laugh more uncontrollably this time. This was so humiliating. He felt as if everyone in the ballroom was staring at him.

"Let's try it again," Alana said once she had gotten her laughter under control. "One two three, one two three," she said softly for the two of them to hear.

Erik sighed and stepped forward, joining the dance again. Six steps, successful, no mistakes…

"Ow!" Alana exclaimed, letting go of his shoulder and looking down.

"What?"

She looked back up at him and burst into laughter again. "You stepped on my foot!"

Erik groaned. This was even worse than he'd anticipated.

Seraphine, with a new partner, waltzed by them and remarked, "Having trouble, Mademoiselle Valjean? It _would _be so difficult to dance like the rest of us here if one had never been to a ball before." She shook her head sympathetically, but had a strange malicious look in her eye as she glided away with her partner.

"Come on, Erik," Alana said. Her face had gone red and the brightness had gone from her expression. "Let's try once more."

He nodded, took her hand, and they began again. He willed himself to focus on the music, to forget all else around them, and soon he found himself stepping in rhythm, circling across the floor with Alana following his lead. The music was all he could hear, and she was all he could see. He stepped away and spun her around, and then brought her back to him, so close. She never once looked away from him, or he from her. Just as it had done throughout his entire life, music was guiding his every footstep.

Only this time, he wasn't walking alone.

When at last the music stopped and he spun Alana for the final time, he blinked back to a reality that, for once, wasn't so bad. He allowed himself a smile as he bowed with the rest of the gentleman, and Alana returned his smile as she curtsied with the ladies. They left the center of the ballroom and Erik leaned against the wall, deep in thought as he looked at all the people in their various costumes.

"That wasn't so terrible, was it?" Alana asked him.

"At first, yes," he said honestly. "But toward the end it went rather well, wouldn't you say?"

She nodded excitedly. "At this rate, if we dance all through the night we'll be the most skilled dancers in this entire ballroom…" she broke off, laughing again. "As long as you don't step on my foot again! It's a wonder I'm able to walk at all!"

Erik laughed softly. "My apologies."

"I might just forgive you," she said imperiously, "if you'll dance the next dance with me again."

"What about your friend, the Comte?" Erik searched the room for the dashing young man.

"Oh, don't worry about that. There's plenty of time left tonight. But I'll need quite a bit more practice before I dance with the likes of him."

"With the likes of him?" Erik felt himself being transformed by the lightheartedness of the celebration around them. "My dear Alana, once you're finished dancing with me you will no longer wish to go anywhere near the dance floor with the _likes of him._"

Her cheeks flushed a little. "Well, we'll see about that," she said wryly.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Damien sipped his champagne, looking out at the sea of costumed dancers. There went Alana and her lunatic; they were moving with the music, but their footwork was absolutely atrocious. He choked back a laugh.

"There he is!" came a woman's voice

Damien spun around and immediately was wrapped in a tight embrace. "Mother!" he exclaimed. _Was this display of motherly affection really necessary among all his friends? _

Ignoring his cry of protest, the Marquesse de Bellamy pulled away and touched his cheek. "So handsome, just like your father."

"I appreciate the compliment my dear," said the Marquis as he approached.

"For heavens sake though, son, put away that glass of champagne. I can't remember the last time I saw you without a drink in your hand." Her voice was lighthearted, but her eyes were full of concern.

"I'd listen to your mother if I were you, son," said the Marquis. "Besides, what are you doing drinking? You should be out dancing, with our dear Seraphine. It's your twenty-third birthday, a time for celebration!"

Damien rolled his eyes. "What better birthday present than to _not _dance with her."

The Marquesse gasped with shock. "Oh mercy! You two haven't had a falling out, have you? Oh, you have. I can see it!" She shook her head sadly. "What a pity…you two were very nearly engaged! You must go to her! Make amends!"

Damien laughed. "I do not intend to turn tonight into an engagement celebration, Mother." He held up a finger to silence the woman before she interrupted him. "Nor do I intend to marry Seraphine…ever."

The Marquesse looked to her husband for support. Damien's father looked at him and said. "Very well, son; you're a grown man. Tonight is in your honor. You may do as you wish. But I'd advise you to think about this decision a little more seriously."

His mother started all of a sudden. "There's another woman, isn't there?"

Damien knew he had a guilty expression on his face; he never could hide much from his mother.

"Who is she? Is she here?" she demanded.

He scanned the ballroom, and spied Alana, dancing with her murderous partner with a naively blithe expression on her face. He pointed her out. "There she is."

He heard his mother's sudden intake of breath. "Oh. She's a very…pretty girl, with a fine gown. But who is she? I've never seen her in my life! Where is she from?"

Damien swallowed hard. "She is the daughter of Reverend Valjean back in Paris."

In an instant both of his parent's eyes were on him, shocked and angry. "You can't be serious," the Marquis said.

"Her mother was a Scottish lady!" Damien jumped to her defense. "She may not have a title now, but she has nobility in her, about her."

The Marquesse clicked her tongue with disapproval, and her husband shook his head. "You may have your fun tonight on your birthday, son, but whatever attachment you may have to that girl must be severed. Tomorrow, it will all come to an end," said the Marquis with an air of finality.

Damien was livid, but he burned with rage in silence. His father had always been a stern man, and even now, at twenty-three, he dared not cross him. His parents stalked off and he finished his glass of champagne in one swig.

_You're wrong,_ he said silently to them. _Tomorrow, everything will begin. _

"What on earth have you done to them?" came Raoul's voice. The Vicomte had walked up beside him and clapped him on the shoulder. "Has the birthday boy been misbehaving?"

"Oh, shut up, Napoleon," Damien growled.

"You guessed already!" Raoul said, looking down at his costume.

"What other historical figure can compare to you in ego? The answer was obvious."

Raoul laughed. "Happy birthday, Damien. Or should I say, hail Caesar? Come now, whoever you are, you must stop lurking around here and come have some fun with the rest of us. It's your celebration. You should enjoy it."

The Comte allowed himself a small laugh. "Oh, don't worry. I will. The party just won't start until all the guests have left for the night."

Raoul chuckled at the irony, then abruptly let out a groan of displeasure. "Would you just look at that?" He gestured toward a man dressed in formalwear and a flowing cape, with a white half-mask on his face. The mask was on the wrong side, but it was obvious he was dressed as the Phantom of the Opera. "He's not the only one I've seen dressed like that. It's some nerve, doing that, with what happened to you and Avery."

Hearing Avery's name was like a knife to the chest. Damien recovered and said, "It's no matter. Besides, the Phantom has become a sort of an urban myth. They're talking about him in all the cafes, and at all the state functions. Everyone knows the story." Except Alana, it seemed, but she'd soon know the sorry tale.

"I wonder which one is the real Phantom," Raoul remarked as he watched the masked man pass by.

"Our man's not dressed as himself…obviously," Damien said. "In fact, there he is…do you see the man in what looks somewhat like an admiral's uniform? It's half white, half black, he's got a black mask and cloak…"

"I see him," the Vicomte said with revulsion. "Dancing with your Alana, I see. It's disgusting." Damien nodded and Raoul wondered, "Can you tell me this? How can a masked man with such strange, and wicked behavior possibly win so much of a woman's heart?"

The Comte just shook his head. "Madmen can be the best actors sometimes. You know he's a liar _and_ a lunatic. With him, anything's possible. It's like he's got her under a spell…" Then he realized something. "Where's Christine?"

Raoul gestured vaguely to the far side of the room. "Off talking with some other women. I would've brought her over here with me to talk to you, but she so rarely talks to the other women…"

"Is she angry with you?" Damien interrupted.

He sighed. "She was at first. She tried and tried to change my mind, but after you came and talked to her she was finally able to see things the way we do. She'll be all right. We'll _all_ be. Our troubles will be over very soon, my friend."

The Comte de Bellamy smiled. "I couldn't think of a better birthday present."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The music had steadily picked up tempo, growing livelier. Instead of waltzes, they began doing contra dances. Erik and Alana had tried one and gotten horribly confused, throwing off the other dancers. They retreated, laughing, away from the center of the ballroom.

"Oh, we're bad at this," Alana said, still trying to contain her laughter. "It _is _fun, though, isn't it?"

Erik grunted. "I don't care for all that skipping about." He gestured out at the dancers, prancing in perfect rhythm across the floor, switching from one partner to the other and swinging them around.

"I don't blame you. I don't know how they do that in shoes like this," Alana said.

"There you two are!" Cerise was coming towards them, arm in arm with the Comte de Bellamy. She looked practically giddy; Erik had seen her out on the floor with the man for the last three dances. The Comte looked as if he were enjoying himself, but he appeared somewhat distracted, and Erik knew who was making his mind wander. He regarded the Comte coolly as the man approached Alana and asked her to dance. Her eyes darted to meet Erik's, but she quickly looked back at the Comte and accepted his offer.

Erik seethed as he watched Damien lead her off, and he leaned back against the wall, his arms folded tightly across his chest. Cerise stood beside him, wistfully watching Alana and the Comte walking away.

After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, Cerise turned to him. "Are you having a good time?"

"Yes," he replied. He wasn't fond of the crowds of people; every time someone looked at him, it made him uncomfortable. But he was grateful for a new experience, one that wasn't all bad, and he was grateful for being able to spend time with Alana without having to hide.

"I'm glad to hear that," said Cerise. "Alana was very happy that you decided to come, you know. She hasn't been able to stop talking about you for weeks."

Erik was taken aback. "She hasn't?"

Cerise turned her piercing blue gaze on him; there was a strange intensity in her eyes. "You had better not do anything to hurt my cousin. She's already dealt with too much pain in her life." And with that, the auburn-haired girl sauntered off across the room, disappearing into the crowd and leaving Erik alone with his thoughts.

He searched the ballroom and glimpsed Alana and Damien dancing together, smiling and laughing as the Comte showed her what to do. As he watched, he began to contemplate the different ways the man could be murdered. Eventually he tore his gaze away, unable to watch anymore. Was it normal to feel so…_jealous_?

A few men and women stopped by to speak to him, usually to ask him who he was; they'd never seen him before. He only spoke to them briefly, concocting false names to those who asked for his, and turning down several women's requests to dance. They probably thought he was terribly rude, but he had nothing to say to them. He wasn't good at making small talk, saying pointless things that nobody really cared about. Erik stifled a yawn. This place didn't seem quite so beautiful, the party didn't seem quite so exciting, without Alana at his side…

Suddenly, his gaze fell upon a dark-haired woman in a black gown with her back to him, all alone on the opposite side of the ballroom. Slowly she turned around. She was wearing a black mask, but it could not hide her identity. He knew who she was immediately.

The woman's champagne glass slipped from her hand and fell to the floor, shattering to pieces.

Erik felt an overwhelming cold rush through him. It seemed the entire room had grown dark, and all other people had disappeared but him and the woman in black. He didn't know what he felt. Anger? Fear? Hatred?

Love?

Neither one of them moved for what seemed like forever. And then he saw the Vicomte de Chagny walk up to the woman in black. He took Christine in his arms and kissed her, leading her out of Erik's sight.

He just stood there, numb. He longed to go after her, and he longed to run away, far from her. She would never love him. She could never be trusted not to betray him. There was no future for them.

He was so utterly confused. His feelings for Christine were so strong, and so was what he felt for Alana. There was such a long history with Christine, and he'd only known Alana since earlier that summer. But what he felt for Alana was something entirely different than anything he'd experienced before; it was something good, he thought. But was it real? How could he know?

"Erik?" He turned at the sound of his name, half expecting to see Christine there for a moment before he remembered that in all the years she'd known him, she'd never asked for his name. Alana was there in front of him, so fair, so innocent, so trusting. _What does she see in me?_

"Did you have a good dance?" he forced himself to ask.

"Yes, I did," she answered. "Contra dancing isn't so hard once you practice a little…are you sure nothing's wrong? You look as though you've seen a ghost."

"It's nothing."

"Why don't we go outside?" She took his arm gently and they made for one of the large glass doors leading out into the gardens. "The fresh air could do us some good."

A cool breeze floated past them as they stepped outside. Summer was nearly over; a few leaves drifted from the branches of the various trees planted in a perfectly ordered way around the garden. The chateau grounds seemed neverending. The pathway leading through the expanse of flowers, trees, and hedges could go on and on forever. The two of them wandered through the gardens for a while, passing a few scattered couples also milling about in the fresh air.

"What's bothering you, Erik?" Alana asked finally. "You actually seemed…happy earlier tonight, but I can tell that something's wrong."

He sighed. "I saw someone."

Her expression darkened. "Who?"

He didn't want to say it, but he had to. "Christine," he whispered. Alana opened her mouth to speak but he cut her off. "But it doesn't matter. I shouldn't even care that she's here, with someone else. I don't need her. She's brought me so much pain…"

"I'm sorry…"

"You don't have to apologize, Alana. You've helped me more than anyone ever has." He could hear the emotion in his own voice. "With you, I've said and done things I've never said and done before, seen things I'd never seen, felt things I've never felt.

I just want to tell you thank you for all you've done."

Her cheeks flushed pink. "You're welcome. It's no trouble at all."

_That's where you're wrong Alana. A person like me is nothing but trouble. _The question was, should he let her go, keep her safe from himself and his past? If he continued down this road, he would bring her pain. It was inevitable.

They'd come to a little gazebo, and they stood and stared at the lights of the chateau behind them. "It's lovely, isn't it?" Alana sighed. "You can hear the music from here." The sounds of the orchestra drifted on the wind across the garden.

It was a slow, sweet-sounding song, and it began to soothe his troubled heart. Listening to the music, and looking at the girl beside him filled him with a sense of peace, the most he'd felt in a long time. He took Alana's hand in his.

"May I have this dance?"

She smiled and nodded, and he pulled her close to them. They began to dance in time to the music, in their own way. They were all alone, and they could be themselves. Erik let the music tell him how to move, and he began to hum softly along with the tune, until words came to him and he began to sing.

_May I have this dance?_

_Tonight on our own, you and I_

_We're alone, and I swear I've never felt more alive_

_You and me_

_That's all we need_

_So may I have this dance?_

He felt his face burning, and broke off. _What am I thinking? _"I'm sorry. That was dreadful, wasn't it?"

Alana's eyes were shining. "No," she whispered. "I think it's beautiful. Won't you sing it again?"

He smiled, and sang the verse again, adding new words to it.

_Before today, there was only pain_

_All I've ever known is night_

_But now I see, when you're with me_

_All I see is light. _

_No more hate, despair, or fear_

_It all fades when you are near_

_How can I deserve this?_

_How can I repay this?_

Alana reached up a finger and gently touched his lips as she sang,

_You can have this dance. _

Erik felt a sudden rush of happiness stronger than anything he'd ever felt before. They danced and sang the first verse until the music stopped. Alana pulled away smiling sadly as she said, "I wish they could have played that song forever…I don't want it to be over."

"But it's not over," Erik said, still holding her hand. "Our song is just beginning."

Alana's eyes shone even more than before, and he realized it was because they were full of tears. Suddenly her arms were wrapped tightly around him, and her face was buried in his chest. He stood there and held her until she finally stepped back. "Thank you so much for coming." She wiped a tear away. "I think this is the happiest I've been in years."

"You're very welcome. I can say with the utmost honesty that this is the happiest I have been in my entire life." She looked at him in bewilderment, and he reached out to wipe away the final tear from her face. "And it's all thanks to you."

Erik couldn't believe he was saying these things, and yet he couldn't believe that he hadn't already said them. Alana looked down at the ground, blushing at his words; he could feel the heat rising beneath her skin through his hand that still lingered on her face. He found his hand moving to her chin, and slowly, slowly, he tilted her face upward to meet his. For a moment he just stared at her, his heart pounding wildly in his chest.

Then, at last, his lips met hers.

It was a slow, gentle kiss.

They were not consumed by burning passion, but an overwhelming peace such as they had never felt before. When they finally pulled apart, they stood with their faces close together, drinking in the moment. Neither one of them spoke or met the other's eyes until Erik put his arms around her again and placed a soft kiss on her cheek. He wanted to speak, but all his words had gone. Her gaze drifted away from him to the brightly lit chateau, and he realized what he'd meant to say.

"Alana, I think I…"

"Look, everyone's stopped dancing," she said at the same time. "Wait. What did you say?"

Erik looked and saw that everyone in the ballroom was standing still, watching something. "It seems something important is going on. We should go inside." She nodded slowly, and he led her inside by the hand.

"What were you going to say back there?" she asked as they neared the open doors.

"It can wait," he said with breathless anticipation.

_Joy. This is the first time I have ever experienced joy. Right now, nothing matters but her, and nothing could possibly bring me down from this place. _He found himself, much to his own surprise, thanking the Almighty for this blessing he'd been given for some unknown reason. _I thank you with all my heart. I know I don't deserve this, but please, let it last. _

At the top of the staircase on the far side of the ballroom, the Vicomte de Chagny was making a speech in Damien's honor, with Christine at his side, and Erik didn't even care. He did not hear a word of any of the speeches from the Comte de Bellamy's many friends and family members. All he heard was the sound of his own racing heartbeat, and all he felt was joy and the feeling of Alana's hand in his.

And when the last of the speeches were given, and the last toast was made, and the guests began to disperse, when one of the servants led him, Alana, and Cerise up the stairs to their rooms, that was still all Erik could feel. After Cerise had said goodbye to them, casting a wary glance his way, she disappeared into her room, leaving Erik and Alana in the hall alone.

"Thank you for a wonderful night, Erik," she said with a smile. "I _told _you we would have a good time."

Erik gave a small laugh. "Well, I've learned my lesson about even thinking to contradict you on anything ever again."

She laughed too, and said, "Good night."

Erik leaned forward and kissed her softly on the lips. "Good night."

And then she was gone inside her room, and he was standing in the hallway by himself. He saw a flash of movement to the left and looked up.

The Comte de Bellamy stood in the intersection of the several different hallways, staring at him icily. Erik shot back a cool glare of his own and turned his back on him, making his way to his own bedroom. The servant had showed it to him before he'd gone to bid goodnight to the two women he'd escorted tonight. It seemed to be on the opposite side of this particular wing of the chateau, far, far away from Alana.

But that was all right. She was in his heart now, and he knew that he was in hers. He went inside and changed out of his costume into a simple white shirt and trousers, and replaced his black mask with the usual white one. It had been a long day and night, and he sank gratefully into a soft, luxurious armchair. The suitcase he had brought was sitting alongside the chair, and he opened it, pulling out the two books he had packed. The clock in his room had just struck four, but he wasn't tired. He would read to pass the time until he could see Alana again.

He stared at the two books in his hand. One, his beloved old dog-eared book of Poe's dark stories. The other, the Holy Bible, the one Alana had given him. He regarded the second with slight annoyance but at the same time, curiosity. Before tonight, he had never felt anything from God but disapproval and cold, angry silence. But now, he swore he felt something else, and maybe this giant book full of stories with strange names could help him make sense of everything.

He set Poe down and flipped through pages and pages of unfamiliar words. He stopped on a single page, and scanned the text for something that would mean anything to him. Erik saw the word "love" and decided to begin reading there.

"Love has long patience, is kind; love is not emulous; love is not insolent and rash, is not puffed up, does not behave in an unseemly manner, does not seek what is its own, is not quickly provoked, does not impute evil, does not rejoice at iniquity but rejoices with the truth, bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never fails."

Erik stopped right there, the book falling from his hands onto the floor. He had never thought of love like that before, and he realized with horror where he had gone wrong in the past. He thought he had loved, but he had had no idea what love really was. He knew little of this Bible, but the words resounded true in his mind. He had never known love, perhaps until…

A sudden knock on his door jolted him from his thoughts. _Who could that be, at this hour? _Maybe it was Alana, he guessed. _Who else could it be? _He thought with a smile as he got up.

He pulled the door open and stepped back in shock.

"Christine?"


	30. Betrayed

Chapter Thirty-one

"_One should die rather than be betrayed. There is no deceit in death. It delivers precisely what it has promised. Betrayal though…betrayal is the willful slaughter of hope. -Steven Dietz_

Looking at the woman before him was like taking a look into the past, a past where everything had been turned upside down. Erik blinked a few times to make sure that what he was seeing was real. There she was, in that same white lace dressing gown, her dark hair in loose curls, her brown eyes gazing up at him with a look of wonder. She seemed so innocent, trusting, and a little afraid. He didn't know what he felt.

"What are you doing here?" was all he could say. Even he, an outcast of traditional society, knew it was the height of impropriety for her to have come here at this hour of the night.

She just stared at him, and though looking at her pained him and made him afraid, he could not tear himself away from her gaze. His thoughts raced wildly along with his pulse, and he realized that what happened in the next few moments could change the course of everything. In the midst of this his mind went to Alana. Everything had descended into a fog. He didn't know what he wanted, and he didn't know what to do.

"I saw you tonight from across the ballroom," Christine said. "I've been wanting to speak to you."

Erik swallowed. "What do you mean? After the last time..."

"I know what happened the last time I saw you," she interrupted, breathless. "but you don't know how I felt after you left."

_What is happening here? _He thought. He still could not find the words.

"I saw you escape, but you were hurt so badly, and I was afraid you would die in the street somewhere, or that someone would find you...turn you in, or finish you off themselves. Not knowing what would happen to you was more than I could bear, and then when I saw you tonight, I couldn't believe it. You were alive and well, and not only that, you seemed more alive than ever before."

Though it was mostly confusion that floated around in his mind, Erik felt a twinge of anger. "Do you mean to say, then, that you care about me?"

She blinked, and then she smiled at him. "Of course I do." Then she looked down, guilt spreading across her face. "I know some of the things I've done don't exactly make that clear..."

"They don't," Erik said coldly, remembering the shame he'd felt when she'd pulled his mask off in front of everyone, the agony he'd felt as she placed the ring in his hands and left him. Could he really forgive such things? She'd caused him so much pain, and just an hour before he'd finally felt freedom from that pain. Yet now he could feel something creeping up inside of him, something cold and dark and fierce. That old friend and enemy, who had everything under his control.

"But I'm so, so sorry for everything. I was wrong about all of it." Her eyes darted nervously from the right to the left. "It's not safe to stay and talk here. Come with me. I know a place where no one will find us." She extended a hand to him.

Erik backed up a step. "Why should I trust you?" His voice was just a whisper.

"Have you forgotten your Angel?" She echoed the sad, desperate question he had once asked her. "I will never do anything to hurt you, ever again," she said softly. "You're my master, my teacher, my angel of music."

"You know I am no angel," said Erik bitterly.

"You are to me." Christine took his hand, and for some reason, he didn't let go. "Now come...please."

_Go_, a voice whispered and shouted to him. _Go. _

And he went.

He followed her down the stairs and through the opulent house, her hand in his. It was so much like their first descent underground months ago, only this time, the roles had reversed. He was not completely trusting, but something was pulling him along. Whatever happened next, it was meant to be, and he was not afraid. Whatever happened, he could handle it. He was strong, he was intelligent, he was unstoppable. He could be wounded, but he could never be defeated.

Wordlessly, Christine led Erik out a door and outside the chateau, glancing behind her at him, as if making sure that he was actually there following her. They passed through a grove of trees and came into a clearing. A river ran through it, the water rushing in currents across sharp rocks. The moon, half covered by darkness, was reflected in the water.

"Well, here we are," she said as they came to a halt. "The river is beautiful, isn't it?"

"Yes." Erik glanced around the clearing. The trees grew around them like a wall, a chill blowing through the leaves, sending some of them floating down from their branches. Summer was coming to an end. "Why have you brought me here?"

Christine gazed wide-eyed at him. "Don't you know? Why else would I have brought you here?" She held his hand tighter. "When I saw you last, you asked me to come away with you. I denied you then. But I'm ready now. I've decided. I want to be with _you_."

Erik dropped her hand as if it were on fire. Suddenly he'd become numb all over. He stepped back, staring at her, his heart pounding in his ears. _Who is this woman? _Part of him didn't recognize her. The words coming out of her mouth sounded so foreign, but there was a look in her eyes that was not completely unfamiliar. "What? What are you talking about...what? I don't understand..."

"You don't have to." Christine moved closer, reached up and touched his cheek.

At her touch he flinched and backed away again. "You left me. You chose the Vicomte." He felt anger surging up inside of him. "You're lying." Part of him screamed at him for saying it, but the other part felt it to be true. "You're lying!" he shouted.

Christine cringed before him, her lips quivering. "No...no, I'm telling the truth. Come, look! Behind the tall grass." She hurried down to the banks of the river and parted the high blades of grass. There by the bank was a small boat. "We can leave, now. Sail off down the river. No one will be able to find us."

Erik sank to his knees, covering his face with his hands, overcome by the conflicting emotions inside him. _Fool! Go with her! This is everything you've ever wanted. Now's your chance. Seize hold of it! _

"Angel?"

He let his hands fall away and gazed at her. She seemed to be full of emotion as well. This truly was everything he'd wanted...Christine standing before him, asking him to go away with her. Choosing him, not Raoul.

_Everything I ever wanted!_

"Angel?"

_But I don't want it anymore..._

"Christine, is this truly what you want?"

"Yes, of course. I want to make you happy."

He swallowed. "But that's just it, Christine. I _am _happy."

Her lips parted and a stunned expression came across her face.

"Not so long ago, if you had come to me like this, I would have gone with you, without a second thought. But now...something's different."

"What's different?" Christine's eyes darted back and forth around the clearing, almost like she was searching for something.

"I've met someone. I've known her for a while, but it took me a long time to realize something about her . She knows me. She trusts me. And she cares about me. She's been the best friend I've ever had and...and I think that I love her."

There. He'd said it. All at once the chill and the numbness faded away, and he was filled with joyous contentment and warmth. If only she had been here in Christine's place, to hear him say it...

Christine stared at him in disbelief. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but nothing came out. Instead, Erik heard a man's voice speak out in the clearing.

"How touching."

He spun around, and there was the Vicomte de Chagny, who had appeared out of nowhere from between the trees.

"I'm proud of you. You've learned to move on from Christine. I don't think any of us saw that coming. You certainly didn't, did you my dear?" Christine ran to her husband's side and wrapped her arms around him, her eyes suddenly filling with tears.

"What is this?" Erik snarled. "What do you want from me?"

"Nothing, nothing at all," said Raoul cheerfully. He looked almost giddy. "But I have a friend who's just...desperate to meet you."

"What?" Erik was confused, but he knew that whatever was happening, it was going in a strange, dangerous direction. All of his senses were on edge, and he was ready to do whatever he had to do. He reached for his sword, but his hands touched nothing. He realized with horror that he had left his weapon in his room at the chateau.

"May I introduce my closest friend, Comte Damien de Bellamy."

Then the young dark-haired man appeared from within the grove of trees. "Ah, Monsieur Erik. Raoul, I'm afraid you're mistaken. Erik and I have already been acquainted. He was one of my honored guests at the ball."

"What is this?" Erik demanded again, looking between Christine and the two men.

"I didn't get a chance to speak to you as I would have wished during the ball," Damien said. "You and I go back a bit longer than you might know, and I would like to reminisce. Wouldn't you?"

"What are you talking about?" Erik's whole body was tense, ready to fight or disappear into the night if he had to.

"Oh come now, surely you must remember." The Comte's voice had a cryptic edge. "Last winter? The first performance of your own spectacular opera, _Don Juan Triumphant. _We were both there."

Erik felt sick to his stomach as he remembered that night.

"I was sitting very near the front, with my younger brother," Damien continued. "It was a good show. You gave a brilliant performance, I must say. But I have a few critiques to give. Why did you let your leading lady remove that mask?" He gestured to the distraught-looking Christine. "The sight of your face gave my brother a terrible fright. He was just a child, after all. The entire audience was horrified. And your choice to send that chandelier come crashing down? What were you thinking?"

Erik didn't answer.

Damien stepped closer. His expression had darkened terribly, and his eyes had gone almost black. "Were you thinking about my brother? Were you thinking about anyone? Or were you only thinking of yourself, and how you wanted to punish everyone for seeing the hideousness of the face you tried and failed to hide?"

Rage and fear rose up inside of Erik. He lunged at Damien, seizing him by the shoulders. The Comte stood still, looking up fearlessly into Erik's face, his eyes full of hatred. "You killed my brother, you heartless, worthless bastard."

In shock, Erik suddenly let go of him, pushing him away. "What?"

"You brought the chandelier down. It nearly killed me. There was glass in my skin, burns on my body. I came out alive. But Avery didn't. He was crushed to death, and burned. _You killed him_."

Then the guilt came. _Another dead...I didn't know...I killed another...a child, just a child...what have I done? _

He met Damien's gaze. "I didn't know..."

"That doesn't change a thing. You still killed him." The Comte's voice was cold. "And you're going to pay."

There was silence, nothing but the sound of the rushing river, and Christine, who had begun sobbing as Raoul tried hopelessly to console her. Fear filled Erik, and he knew he could not stay. He turned, and dashed for the trees.

Then, all of a sudden, a wall of men appeared from the woods. Before Erik could react, he'd been seized by the arms. He kicked and thrashed wildly, in desperate confusion and will to escape, like an animal in a trap. He heard some of the men shout in pain and fall back, and then he was free for a blissful moment. He was going to escape, go back to Alana, and leave this place and the wicked memories and haunting guilt forever.

But he felt several pairs of strong arms grabbing hold of him again. He crashed to the ground under the weight of five men, all the breath knocked out of him. Then he was pulled back to his feet, his arms tightly pinioned behind him. Breathing heavily, he looked up into the face of one of the men, and his heart nearly stopped.

"And so, we meet again, Devil's Child."

"Emilian." Erik's voice was hardly a whisper. As he looked into the other man's face, he was filled with a primal terror and hatred that brought him back to the wretched days of his childhood. He was just a boy again, staring into the face of one of his tormentors.

_What is this? Reality or nightmare?_

"Don't look at me like that, Devil's Child, not when there's so much fun still to be had." Emilian flashed a smile that made Erik want to strangle and kill him right then. He struggled to break free of his captors, but there were too many of them. Emilian turned to Damien. "What would you have me and the men do, my Lord?"

The Comte folded his arms. "Bring him forward."

The men dragged Erik closer to the Comte de Bellamy until they were standing face to face. "And now, my Lord?" Emilian asked.

Damien smiled, his expression strangely warm and peaceful. "Let him go."

"What?" The gypsy man stared at him unbelieving.

"Let him go."

And then Erik was free. He stood there, frozen, not knowing whether to fight or to turn and run.

"I think I've had a change of heart," Damien said calmly. "I confess, I had planned to wreak a terrible vengeance upon you, Erik, but now, I'm not so sure that's what I'm going to do." He stared directly into Erik's eyes, his own unreadable. "You've suffered enough, haven't you? You've had a hard life. Yes, Alana has told me some of your troubles. It would be cruel of me to inflict even more pain upon you. So I've made a decision. I'm going to let you go free."

Erik looked at him in utter shock and confusion.

"Well? What are you waiting for?" The Comte motioned for him to leave. "Get out of here. Leave this estate now, before I change my mind, or my men decide to take their own course of action. They all have their own reasons for wanting to see you punished, and I wouldn't test them. Or me. Leave."

Erik didn't know what was happening. He took a step back, slowly, but he didn't understand what the Comte had said. He had spoken convincingly, but there was something strange about his words.

"I said leave! Get out of here!" Damien shouted. "You have my word, we will not do anything to hurt you! Now go! Go!"

Erik walked backwards toward the trees, eying everyone in the clearing with suspicion. They stood unmoving, regarding him calmly.

Then, finally, he turned to disappear into the grove.

And then, his back exploded.

There was a deafening crack like a roar of thunder, and a woman's scream. He felt himself falling to the ground, crashing face first into the grass. He looked up and behind him, feeling something warm and wet seeping into his clothes. There, across the clearing, stood the Comte de Bellamy. He was holding a smoking revolver, and he was laughing.


	31. Revelation

Chapter Thirty-one

_"A false witness will not go unpunished, and he who breathes out lies will not escape." -_Proverbs 19:5

Revelation

_This isn't real. It's only a nightmare. Wake up! Wake up!_

Erik's chest was on fire. His whole body was racked with pain as he lay facedown on the ground. _Maybe I'm already dead, _he thought. _Maybe I've died and gone to hell. _He looked up at the sky, and he distantly remembered pointing out the constellations to Alana not so long ago. _No, _he decided. _I'm not dead. There are no stars in hell. _

The laughter of the men cut through his pain-clouded thoughts. Slowly, painfully, he crawled around to face them, glaring blackly at Damien, who looked smugly pleased with himself. As he'd moved the men had grown silent, and Erik turned his gaze on Christine, who was wrapped tightly in the Vicomte's arms. He wanted to kill them. He wanted to see everyone in this place lying in the grass in agony, for them to be in his place, and for him to be in theirs. But he knew, without a shadow of doubt in his mind, that he deserved every single moment of torture he was experiencing. He had long believed a night like this would come.

Erik hurt too much to cry. He was filled with nothing but burning pain, rage, and sorrow. He took a deep breath, which turned out to be more of a gasp that sent a lance of pain coursing through his entire body.

_Oh, Christine…_

She was watching him, eyes full of tears. He looked up at her. "You betrayed me…again…why?"

"I'm sorry!" Christine sobbed. "I'm so sorry…I didn't want this to happen…"

"You…betrayed me…" Erik repeated, his mind plunging into despair.

Christine clung even tighter to her husband, who was staring at Erik with hatred.

There was nothing but sorrow. She'd led him into a trap once more, and this time, he did not think he would escape. _I gave you my music…made your song take wing…and now, how you've repaid me, denied me and betrayed me…_

"Please forgive me, Angel. Please," Christine said.

"There is no Angel." His hand went to the ring on the chain around his neck. "There is no…Phantom of the Opera." His gaze went to Emilian. "There is no Devil's Child." He looked back at Christine. "There is only Erik."

She tried to wipe some of the tears away. "Your name…"

Erik was tired, so tired, but sleep seemed a thousand miles away. "You never…asked me, for my name…"

Christine fell to her knees and wept harder, Raoul kneeling to comfort her. "Don't let him get to you, Christine. He's just trying to manipulate you, get you back on his side." He scowled darkly at Erik. "That's what he always does."

"You're wrong, Vicomte," Erik growled. Then, he tore the chain from his neck and let it go into the air. The ring landed in the grass at Christine's feet. He fell back onto the ground, trying not to lose himself in the pain. "It's over now…" he whispered.

"That's where you're wrong my friend," came Damien's voice. "Your punishment is only beginning."

Christine took the ring in her hands and rose, trembling, to her feet. Then, before anyone could stop her, she took off running into the woods. Raoul moved to run after her, but Damien grabbed hold of his arm. "Let her go," he said. "Besides, you won't want to miss this. Men?" He looked to Emilian, who grinned wickedly. "Do what you will."

Erik hardly felt the individual blows and kicks. He was descending into a world where pain was all that existed. He hardly knew where or who he was anymore. Was he a little boy, back at the fair, being beaten for trying to escape again? _Why must every phase of my life be marked with torment_? _It will never end. I cannot survive this, and when I am dead there will be horrors worse than any I have ever faced before. I am made to suffer. That is all…_

"Take his mask off!" someone shouted, and then he felt sweaty hands ripping it off his face. He heard a few men utter curses, while others murmured their disgust. Some laughed.

"He's ugly," he heard Emilian say, "but you know, I never thought he was as ugly as those at the circus claimed him to be. A freak, yes, but a demon's offspring? Perhaps not." He looked to the men and gave a low chuckle. "But when I'm done with him, he'll look like the devil's son, all right." He pulled his knife from his belt, and the men shouted ideas of ways to carve up their victim's face.

All Erik wanted to do was to get up and run for his life. To find Alana…_Oh God, Alana. The world would be happy to see him gone, but would she? Maybe she will be, once everyone tells her what a monster I was. I told the lies, I murdered the people. I deserve this punishment now…_

"Patience, patience," Emilian urged the others. "Artwork is a slow, slow process. You four, hold him down."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Alana lay awake beneath satin sheets in the enormous bed in her room, her head still spinning from the events of that night. Smiling up at the ceiling, she relived every moment of the ball over and over her mind. In spite of Seraphine's little jabs at her and Cerise, tonight had been a perfect night. She'd been able to spend time with Erik without having to sneak past patrolling soldiers in the middle of the night. And now she finally knew that he had feelings for her.

Oh no. She wasn't going to be sleeping tonight. Humming the tune of the song Erik had sung for her as they'd danced in the garden, she got out of bed and very nearly waltzed to the far side of the room. There was a window seat beneath a large pane of glass with an incredible view of the estate grounds. Alana sat down and pushed the window open, breathing in the cool night air with a sigh of contentment.

She didn't know it was possible to be as happy as she was now. Still, she felt a twinge of sympathy for the Comte de Bellamy. She hadn't been oblivious to the way he'd looked at Erik; she knew Damien had been jealous when she'd chosen to dance with Erik instead of him. _Poor Damien, _she thought. _I know he won't be happy about Erik and I. But he knows so many women, and he could marry anyone he wanted. Just not me._

As she looked out across the estate, she realized that if Damien liked her as much as she suspected, then it would be reasonable to think about how one day, all this grandeur could be hers. She could be a socialite like Seraphine, and have everyone eating out of her hand. She could have one of the most desirable men in all of France and live in one of the country's most beautiful chateaus, in a life of unbelievable opulence and spectacular parties.

But in spite of all that, she couldn't help but also picture herself with Erik, in the place she'd first met him, in that little house just outside her small town. They'd have art, and music, and each other. That was all she needed.

As she looked through the open window at the night sky, Alana found the brightest star she could see and made a wish that what she longed for most of all would come true. Then she stifled a yawn. She was getting sleepy now, so she climbed down from the window seat to make her way back to bed.

But before she got there, she heard a loud _crack. _It came from outside and it sounded almost like a…gunshot. Immediately she ran back to the window. She didn't see anything or anyone, but what she'd heard was unquestionably the sound of a gun being fired. Her pulse picked up. _Why would someone be shooting off a gun in the middle of the __night?_ She'd thought it would be safe here.

Then, she spied a figure in white coming on fast from a grove of trees, running straight for the house. _A ghost! _Alana thought at first, but she quickly realized that the figure was far too unsteady on its feet to be a ghost, stumbling here and there along the way. When the figure came close enough, she saw that it was a woman in a dressing gown, who looked very distraught. Maybe she was the one who had fired the gun…or maybe she was the one who had been shot! Either way, something appeared very wrong.

The woman was heading directly for the wing of the house where Alana was staying, and she thought, _Maybe I'm the only one awake…the only one to see her. _Alana was curious, and also wanted to help this person if she could, so she hurried to put on her own dressing gown, seize a candle, and rush out of her room and down the stairs to meet the woman. When she'd reached the bottom of the staircase, the woman had not yet arrived, and seemed to be nowhere in sight. _Perhaps she's still outside. _Alana found a door and opened it slowly, cautiously, starting to have doubts as to whether she had made the right choice or not. She had no idea what would await her.

What awaited her was the woman, who had sunk down to her knees, sobbing uncontrollably. One hand was holding something tightly, and the other one covered her face, her dark curls hanging down all around it.

Alana closed the door and moved closer. "Madame?"

No answer.

"Madame? What's troubling you? Why are you crying?" Alana knelt down beside the woman, not sure what to make of what was happening.

The other woman let her hand fall away from her face and looked helplessly, despairingly, at Alana.

Alana gasped. The dark hair, the brown eyes, the shape of the face. She recognized this woman. It was the woman from Erik's paintings and drawings. The woman Erik had seemingly given up on. Christine. "It's you," she whispered.

Christine looked at her in bewilderment amidst her tears.

"I know who you are," Alana continued. _There's something strange going on __here_, she thought. _What if Erik's involved?_ She didn't like this. "You're Christine."

The woman nodded dumbly. "How…how do you…" she stammered, struggling to speak in between sobs.

"I'm friends with Erik."

Christine closed her eyes, gasping for breath.

"Now I have an important question," Alana said. "Did you hear that gunshot? Do you know where it came from?"

At her words, Christine crumpled lower onto the ground and began to weep even harder.

"What happened to you?" Alana persisted. Something awful must have occurred. It was very likely that Christine had witnessed something terrible, something that could, she thought with horror, be a shooting. "I was in my room when I heard a gunshot. Then I saw you come running from over there where those trees are. Did someone shoot at you? Or did you see someone else be shot?"

Christine blinked through her tears, then looked down at her hand. Slowly, she unfolded it, revealing a sparkling diamond ring on a broken chain.

"Oh, no." Alana began to tremble, dread and horror filling her mind. "That's Erik's ring…"

"They shot him!" Christine cried out suddenly. "Oh my God, they shot him!"

Alana felt as if a bullet had pierced her own skin. Panic was taking over. _Not my __Erik. No. It couldn't be! He went to his room. He's there now. He's all right. Besides, no __one here would want to hurt him. _

Then she remembered what Madame Giry had told her weeks ago. _"Monsieur __Erik has many enemies."_

Tears welled up in Alana's eyes. "No," she moaned. "No! Oh, Lord…" she turned on Christine, eyes blazing. "Where is he? Take me to him, now!"

"It's hopeless now, hopeless, you don't want to go there…" Christine began, still crying uncontrollably.

"No!" Hysteria was taking hold of Alana as well. "Tell me where he is! You know! Take me there! Now!" She seized Christine by the shoulders. She'd never felt like this before. When the other woman just continued weeping, she shook her roughly. "Tell me where he is!" she screamed. "I have to go to him!"

Finally, Christine rose to her feet, grabbed Alana's arm, and pulled the girl after her as she ran for the grove. "Oh, God…he's shot…my fault…I led him there…I didn't want to…all those men…said I had to…only way to be happy…free…what could I do?" She gasped as she ran and sobbed simultaneously.

Alana didn't answer, didn't even think about what Christine was trying to say. She was running as fast as she could, driven by her emotions and her urgent need to get to Erik if he was hurt. She had to help him. Oh, if he was shot…

Then they had burst through the trees into a clearing, and Alana saw a crowd of men gathered around something on the ground. They were laughing, and one of them was kneeling in the grass with a wicked looking knife in his hand that dripped with blood.

She screamed.

The men suddenly stopped what they were doing and stared at Alana and

Christine.

Then, hardly knowing what she was doing, Alana charged at the men, who moved quickly out of her way. And then she stifled another scream, because she saw what the men had been gathered around.

There was Erik, lying on the ground, his clothes bloody and torn, the holes in his shirt showing horrible bruises. And there was blood at the upper right side of his chest. A gunshot wound. He lay there on his back with his eyes half closed and his head turned to the side. It was then that she saw his white mask, lying on the ground next to him, crushed and broken.

And it was then he slowly turned his head to look at her.

She gasped.

In place of the mask was a strange, reddish scarred visage, made more horrifying by the hideous jagged lines across that side of his face, seeping blood that covered his cheek and trickled down his neck. That man had carved his face up with that knife, she realized with horror. The two sides of his face were so completely different she almost couldn't believe what she was seeing. Such ugliness with such beauty.

The broken bodied man on the ground looked up at her with such helpless despair and pain that Alana broke down and wept like Christine. She began to move closer to him but suddenly someone seized her by the arm. She tried frantically to free herself, but another arm grabbed her and held her still, and then she was spun around to come face to face with Damien.

She breathed a sigh of relief. "Oh, thank God! Damien, please, help him! Take him inside, call a doctor…"

"No, Alana," Damien said evenly.

She didn't understand. "He needs help! Help him!" Her voice cracked on the words. Out of the corner of her eye she glimpsed Christine, who was now being carried away from the scene by the Vicomte Raoul de Chagny. "Why…why won't you help him? What's wrong with you?" she screamed. "Just look at him!" She dared to glance down at Erik again, who was silently watching her from where he lay. _Why are they doing this to you, Erik?_

"No, Alana. _You _look at him. The man on the ground there, he's not the man you know. The man you think he is."

"What…what are you talking about?" Alana asked in anger and confusion.

"He lied to you, Alana. He's not a war hero with a battle scar, he's an escaped circus freak, and he's a liar, kidnapper, thief, and murderer. And he had you under his spell. Who knows what he would have done to you if he had the time…?"

"What? No! That's not true!" Alana cried, thrashing wildly in his grasp. "Let me go! Let me help him! Oh, somebody help him please!"

"We _are _helping him. We're giving him justice! He's a monster, he's a killer, Alana! Remember the story I told you about the madman who killed my brother? Well this is him, Alana! _Erik_ is the one who killed Avery! And Avery's not the only one he's hurt! Each man here has been hurt by this man in some way, be it with fraud, blackmail, threats, or physical hurt to themselves or their loved ones!"

"No!" she screamed. "No! It's not true! I don't believe it! He wouldn't! Someone, please, help him!"

"It is true," came a voice. It belonged to a young gypsy man, and Alana realized that she recognized him.

"I know you!" Shock had completely taken over her. "You attacked us on the road! You tried to kill him then!"

"Because he murdered my uncle! Even as a child he was evil, full of dark magic and wickedness! He murdered my uncle when he wasn't even ten!" Emilian ran to Erik's side. "Tell her it's true!" He kicked Erik in the ribs, ignoring Alana's cries of protest.

"Tell her every word we've said is true!" He kicked him again, harder. Erik cringed at the blow, but did not cry out. "Tell her!"

Erik looked up at Alana, his blue-green eyes bloodshot and weary with pain. Her heart broke with his as she saw a single tear run slowly down his unmarred cheek. Then he opened his mouth and gasped, "It's…true…"

_This can't be real. It's just a bad dream. Oh, wake up. Please wake up! Wake up __to a warm bed in a beautiful room. Wake up and run to Erik's room. Go to him and see __him there, and know that he's an honest, good man. Tell him that you love him. _

Alana stared at him open-mouthed, the tears rushing down her face. It couldn't be true. The man who had saved her life couldn't possibly have taken the lives of others, outside the war he'd fought. But Damien had said he had not fought in the war at all.

Erik couldn't have lied to her! It wasn't possible! She'd seen truth in his eyes tonight, at the ball. She knew that she loved him, and it seemed certain that he loved her too. At the very least they were supposed to be friends. He was such a beautiful person, oh how she loved him. His music, his songs. His smile. How could he do these things?

Madame Giry's words haunted her again. _Erik has many enemies. _

It all made sense now. The strange behavior, the hiding, the secretiveness, the unanswered questions. In all the time she'd known him, it had seemed as though he were running from something, and now she knew. He'd been running from his past.

And an awful thing it was.

She shook her head slowly in disbelief, trembling all over. "No," she whispered.

"Erik, no. It can't be true." She looked back down at him, and this time, his eyes did not lie.

He was a murderer.

She'd fallen in love with a killer.

_What man can I trust? The ones closest to me, their lives are poisoned by __darkness and violence._

Alana backed away, still shaking her head. She made herself glare darkly at Erik, who seemed to shrink even lower into the ground. She made herself look at Damien and say, "I…I can't…be here. I can't, I don't know what to do…I have to go back to the chateau."

He nodded to her. "I'll be heading back too, very soon. And Alana? Don't grieve over this for too long. You were deceived. Many of us were. But it will be over soon. All the pain this man has caused will come to an end, and then we will be able to get through this together."

Alana tried to force a smile, but she could not. Instead, she willed herself to turn her back on the nightmarish scene and walk into the forest. She did not look back, and she did not falter, though a knifelike pain cut through her chest as she heard Damien say,

"Enough of this. Just look at him, he's not much longer for this world. Throw him into the river."

Her heart broke into a million pieces when she heard Erik, crying out her name.

Alana stopped, and leaned against the back of a tall, wide oak tree. She just stood there, eyes closed, hot tears streaming down her face and neck. She waited there for what seemed like a thousand years, until she heard many footsteps making their way through the trees nearby, until she could no longer hear them.

Then, she abandoned the tree and dashed for the clearing. She burst through the trees to find Erik gone. He must have been thrown in the river like Damien had said. She ran alongside the river, following the current and looking into the clear water, hoping and praying that Erik was still alive.

She was in shock, she was heartbroken, and she was livid.

_But by God, __I'm not going to let that man die. _


	32. Life and Death

Chapter Thirty-three

Life and Death

"_As long as life is long, I'll love him right or wrong, and somehow I'll be strong, as long as he needs me. If you are lonely, then you will know…when someone needs you, you love them so. I won't betray his trust, though people say I must. I've got to stay true just…as long as he needs me…" _-Oliver!

Erik did not struggle when several of the men lifted him off the ground. He felt nothing anymore. Christine was gone. It hurt him to the core that she'd decided once again to betray him, but his anger towards her was fading. Christine had scarcely changed since the day she'd first come to the opera house; she was still like a child. She was too easily manipulated by others, so much so that she never knew what she truly wanted. He could not bring himself to blame her for what had happened.

But everything was over between them now. The Angels of Music were no more.

But what hurt him more than anything, more than Christine's betrayal, or the gunshot wound, or his the cuts on his face and the bruises on his body was the sight of Alana's face when he'd confessed to her that all Damien had said was true. At first he'd thought she didn't believe it, but then he saw her disappointment, and he saw her slowly turn her back on him. He saw her leave.

And that was when Erik resigned himself to his fate. He gave up and let the men carry him to the river's edge, and before he knew it, he felt himself plunging into the icy depths. He sank until he'd nearly reached the bottom, the current of the water pulling him along slightly. He could see some of his own blood floating around him, but the frigid water numbed his pain, and he was grateful that he could die feeling nothing at all.

_Death is coming, soon, so soon…_

He'd so often wished to die, and now it was finally time to move on, to begin a journey to whatever awaited him. A world beyond this one. A world completely unfamiliar to him, though he could guess at what it would be like.

_No more beauty. No more music. No more Alana._

_Alana._

_I'll miss her so…_

_You don't have to do this._

_It's too late, and I can't go on in a world where she's turned her back on me…_

_You can't go on to a world where she isn't there at all…_

_Get out of the water!_

Suddenly, Erik was seized with an overwhelming panic. He kicked off from the pebbly river bottom, and made for the surface as fast as he could. His arms and legs didn't want to move, but he forced them to. His lungs were screaming for air, and his vision was growing dark. He knew he was drowning. If he didn't make it to the surface soon, he'd be dead.

But with one final push, his head came above water. Coughing and gasping for air, he tried to make for shore, but the current at the surface was strong and it pulled him quickly downstream. At times he was dragged down back beneath the water, and he feared again that he would drown, but he managed to keep his head up long enough to take those lifesaving breaths.

Erik didn't know how long he could keep this up. His entire being was nothing but weariness. He had to survive, he _had _to, but he wasn't sure he could. He needed to swim to the riverbank, but the current was too strong. The river dashed him up against tall rocks, and he didn't know how much more he could take before he was either cut to pieces or drowned. He had to get out of the water somehow. As the current dragged him onward, he glimpsed through the spray a large rock not so far off downstream, near the shore. He was going to hit it dead on, and his only chance for survival was to hold on and climb up the rock, crawl across it, and slide down it to the ground.

He braced himself for the impact, and then, he was slammed against the rock. It was wet and slippery, and he scrambled to find a hand or foothold. Finally, he found one, and somehow he strained until he found the strength to drag himself slowly, painfully, to the top of the rock.

There he collapsed, coughing up water from his lungs and gasping for breath. Erik was still numb from the cold water so he could not feel his injuries as much as he knew he would later, but his entire body was sore all over. He was tired, so, so tired.

_I'll just rest here for a while, _he thought, _until I get the strength to move again. _

_Maybe I'm already dying. _

_I can't die._

_I can't leave her. _

_Even if she left me, I have to stay here. Stay alive. _

_I won't die, I'll just close my eyes for a moment, and rest._

_You're dying._

_I will not let myself die!_

_It doesn't matter what you think, you're still going to die…_

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Alana had been running alongside the river's edge, looking for any sign of Erik. She was beginning to lose hope. He'd probably sunk right to the bottom when they'd thrown him into the water, and drowned.

He's probably dead.

_No, _she told herself. _No. He can't be dead. _

But how could he possibly survive this? She knew he was strong, but she didn't know if he was strong enough to pull through, if anyone could endure that much suffering.

There was a sudden pain in her foot, and she found herself falling forward. She looked down at her bare foot, and saw that she'd cut herself on a sharp stone, blood starting to ooze from the scrape. She got up painfully and continued to limp along, fresh tears running down her face as her hope dwindled even further.

But then she saw something.

A boulder that started on the riverbank and reached into the water. Spray splashed up all around the rock, washing over something that looked like…

That looked like a man.

Alana broke into a run and climbed up onto the rock, nearly tumbling headlong into the river as she tried to move across the slippery wet surface. "Erik!" she shouted over the sound of the rushing water. Slowly, she edged across the rock until she was close enough to touch him. She reached out and took his arm, shaking him slightly. "Erik!"

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

_Erik was walking toward a gigantic black gate. He could see nothing beyond it but pillars of smoke and ash rising up to what should have been the sky. _

_But somehow there was no sky._

_He could smell something like burnt, rotten flesh, and he could hear people screaming. He swore he heard his own voice among the screams. _

_Slowly, slowly, the black gates began to slide open, and he felt a blast of heat upon his face. He was moving toward the gates. He didn't want to go, but he was being drawn in, and he couldn't stop himself from walking forward._

_Suddenly, Erik thought he heard someone calling his name. _

_Then, his feet stopped moving. He turned and looked behind him. _

_He saw an angel. _

_At least, he thought it was an angel. It was a being that shone so brilliantly that he couldn't even look directly at it. He shaded his eyes from the bright light, and he heard that voice saying, _

"_Come back. You do not belong here, and it is not yet your time. Come back."_

"Come back, Erik. Please. I can't live without you…"

Erik slowly opened his eyes. His vision was clouded, but when it began to clear he turned his head and looked up into the face of the angel.

_Wait. That's not the angel. Or is it?_

"Alana?" His voice was hoarse and barely audible, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

"Yes," she said, and this time, he knew for sure that she was with him. He felt her soft hands on his face, the side that was not scarred and deformed. "It's me. Oh, thank God you're alive."

_Alive…_

He looked at her, confused. "You…you left…"

"I know," Alana said tearfully. "I didn't know what else to do. But after I'd gone, I hid, and waited for the men to leave. And then I ran to find you…"

"But…why?" Erik didn't understand.

"I couldn't leave you!" She took his hand. "I know what Damien and the others said back there. I don't even know how I feel about that and I haven't had time to think about it. But there was one thing I did know without having to think about." She laced her fingers with his. "I couldn't let anything more happen to you. I love you too much."

Erik's eyes widened. _What? You what? How…?_

"Now I know you're very hurt, and tired," she was saying, "but we're going to have to move back onto the shore. I can help you, but you're going to have to help me. You're going to have to pull yourself along, too. Can you do it?"

Though he was far past exhaustion, Erik now felt a new drive inside him. He had to live. He had to get back to shore. "Yes," he whispered. _She loves me…? _

Alana took his arm. "Ready?"

She pulled slightly, and he slowly pushed himself forward with his other arm. To move was agony, but he had to go on. Inch by inch, he crawled across the surface of the rock until Alana had stepped down from the boulder.

"Now how are we going to get you down?" she wondered out loud.

Erik tried to raise himself; he pushed up with his arms until he was nearly in a sitting position, ignoring her cries of protest.

"Stop! You're going to hurt yourself even more!"

But there was no other way to get down. He slowly, carefully slid himself off the rock. His feet touched the ground, but they immediately gave out. He felt himself falling, and then Alana grabbing hold of him, trying to steady him. But both were off-balance, and he was much heavier than she was, so both of them were sent crashing to the ground.

He winced and groaned before he saw Alana's startled face beneath his, so close. He realized he was probably crushing her, so he forced himself to move slightly to the side, and she slid out from under him. He sank back into the grass and closed his eyes, gasping from the pain.

"Shh, it's all right," Alana was saying to him. "I'm here, and I'm going to take care of you. Don't worry. Everything will be…"

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

"fine," she finished saying. _But how in the world am I going to help him? Just look at him! _

Alana gazed in horror at Erik's broken body. He had cuts and bruises all over him, not to mention the gunshot wound…and his face. His poor face, all mangled.

The water seemed to have washed away much of the blood that had been coming from the bullet hole and some of his other injuries. She pulled away the soaked fabric of his tattered shirt and looked closer at the gunshot wound. Was the bullet still inside of him? And if it was, how on earth was she going to get it out?

"Erik?" she asked. He gave a faint moan in response. "Erik, I need to turn you over, just a little. To see if the bullet is still inside you." She watched him bite his lip and slowly, she helped him turn over onto his side.

His shirt was almost nonexistent in the back, hanging mostly in loose tatters. But that was not what made Alana gasp.

Erik had horrible, hideous scars all across his back. And they were not new. They seemed to have been there for a very long time, traced across his skin like jagged bolts of lightning. _Oh my God. What kind of life have you known?_

Alana shook her head and made herself focus. The bullet hole was still visible on this side, and after a close examination of the wound, she found that the bullet must have gone straight through him, so that saved her the trouble of removing it. Being in the river had cleaned the injury somewhat, but she knew there was still danger of infection. She tore off strips of her white nightgown and bandaged the wound as best she could. _If only she could call a doctor…_

Then she turned her attention to his mutilated face. Looking at it sent chills down her spine. She could tell that it had been naturally deformed, but the gypsy man had made it far, far worse with his knife cuts. A gash on the left side of Erik's face told her that the man had planned to carve up his entire face like that before she'd appeared at the scene, and she shuddered.

She tore off more pieces of her nightgown and pressed the pieces of fabric over the cuts on his face that were still bleeding a little. She wasn't exactly sure how she could bandage the right side only, and once again cursed the fact that she had no one to help her. If Erik died of his wounds now, it would be her fault.

Then she had a thought.

_Maybe Cerise can help me. _

Alana looked down at Erik. Cerise knew how much Alana cared about him, and Cerise cared about her. If she asked her cousin for help, Alana was certain she would help her.

She had to go back to the chateau and find Cerise.

But she couldn't just leave Erik here, out in the open and vulnerable. She would have to find a place to hide him in the woods. She hated to move from his side for even a moment, but Alana got to her feet and hurried into the forest, searching for the perfect place to leave him. A little ways off she spotted what appeared to be a small wooden shed. She couldn't believe her luck, and she headed towards it, still limping a little from the pain in her foot.

The door to the shed was unlocked, so she opened it and peered inside. It was dark, but the sun had risen at some point and lit the interior enough for Alana to see a few guns and some rusty-looking equipment lining the walls. It was a hunting shed, but it appeared to have been unused for some time. Perfect.

She sprinted back to the river and knelt down by Erik's unconscious form, removing the makeshift bandages from his face. "Wake up," she said, shaking him slightly. "Erik?" She persisted, and eventually he opened his bloodshot eyes.

"I'm so sorry, Erik, but I have to move you. I need to go find help, but I can't leave you here. I've found a place in the woods where you can hide…do you think you can walk?"

Erik closed his eyes again.

"I know. You're so hurt, and so tired, but if we don't move, someone is going to find us and separate us again. I'll help you as much as I can."

For a while Erik just lay there, unmoving, and Alana feared he had lost consciousness again. But then, she watched as he pushed himself slowly to his feet. His leg buckled, and she reached out to support him, but this time, he did not fall. He gazed down at her with red-rimmed, half-closed eyes that were full of weariness but also determination.

"You can lean on me," Alana told him. "We'll get there together."

And they set off, Erik staggering forward at an excruciatingly slow pace, while Alana stumbled under his weight. At times they nearly fell, but somehow they kept on walking through the woods until finally, they reached the shed.

Alana had left the door open, and as soon as they had walked inside they both collapsed to the floor. Erik gasped but did not cry out.

"I'm sorry!" Alana said, sitting up and putting a hand on his shoulder. "But you're safe now. You won't have to move again for a long time."

Erik nodded, closing his eyes again and wincing at the pain. He opened his mouth to speak, but at first no sound came out. Then Alana heard him whisper, "Thank you."

"Don't thank me," she answered, rubbing his shoulder gently. "You saved me first. It was only fair for me to return the favor."

"No…you deserved…help. But not me…"

"Hush now. No more talking. You get some rest, and I'll be back as soon as I can…"

"Don't…leave…" he felt for her hand, and took hold of it.

"I have to go," Alana said sadly. "I need to find my cousin and some things to help you get better. We'll be back here before you know it." She brought his hand up to her lips and kissed it. "I promise, I'll come back for you." Then she let go of him and walked out of the shed, closing the door behind her before she could hear him whisper three quiet words.

Her head was spinning as she raced back to the chateau, her thoughts all mixing up in wild confusion. The things Damien had said Erik had done, he had confessed! Maybe he only confessed those things so that the gypsy man would stop hurting him. Maybe he hadn't really killed people in cold blood.

_But Damien _saw _Erik the night Avery died. Whether he meant to kill anyone or not, he's still responsible for at least one person's death._

_Would he ever do anything to hurt me? He's done nothing but help me, but what if something changed one day?_

Even with her doubts, she couldn't find a place in her mind to make any decisions, and despite her worries about Erik and his past, her feelings for him hadn't changed. Perhaps when the shock wore off, they would. But for now, there were words that repeated themselves over and over in her head. _I love him, I love him, I love him. _

Alana broke out of the woods and stood facing the chateau once again. She took a deep breath and reviewed her mission. She needed to find Cerise and things to help mend Erik's injuries, as well as some food and water for the both of them. And she needed to do this without anyone else knowing what she was doing. She hurried towards the back of this house, hoping and praying that no one would see her.

Erik needed her now.

She could not fail.


	33. A Decision

Chapter Thirty-three

"_The family is a haven in a heartless world."-_Christopher Lasch

It was entirely too early for drinking. The sun had only just risen, and almost everyone, with the exception of the household servants, was still in their beds, recovering from the previous night's revelry. But some had never gone to sleep that night, and now they were gathered in one of the many rooms of the house, laughing and drinking together as they celebrated. It may have been the birthday of one of their company, the son of the master of that estate, but the men were not celebrating a life.

They were celebrating a death.

The Comte de Bellamy sat in a chair in a dark corner of the room, a wine glass in his hand and a somber look on his face in contrast to the almost grotesquely gleeful faces of the drunken men. Damien had been the one to orchestrate their entire plan to finally get rid of the lunatic murderer whose death they now reveled in, but for some reason, now that it had succeeded, he found that he was not in the mood for celebrating.

Raoul came into the room and made his way over to where Damien sat by himself. "Christine's locked herself in our room," the Vicomte said. "She won't speak to me."

Damien just looked up at his friend, saying nothing.

"Are you going to drink that?" Raoul asked. Damien shook his head, so the other man took the glass and drained it. "Just look at them." He gestured across the room at the men, who were recounting the night's events, making vulgar remarks about the man they'd killed, the girl who'd seen them, and laughing hysterically at their own jokes. "You'd think we'd be as happy as they are, seeing as we're the ones who came up with the entire plan in the first place. We're the ones who wanted him gone more than anyone else."

"All most of them wanted out of this was the money," Damien said. "And now they have that, as well free drinks and room and board in this house, at least for today. I don't blame them for being like that. Once this is over, they'll go home, and their lives will return to normal." The Comte sighed.

_But will mine?_

He was glad that Erik was dead; the thought filled him with immense relief. The sight of him lying bleeding, suffering on the ground, and then watching him disappear beneath the icy river, was the most morbidly satisfying thing he had ever seen. And yet, he was not as happy as he'd thought he would be.

Erik's death did not take away the hatred Damien felt toward him. It did not take away the pain of losing Avery. He had thought his revenge would change everything, and that the justice in Erik paying a fatal price for the things he'd done would somehow make his own life better.

But it hadn't.

He felt just as cold inside as ever.

Damien realized distantly that Raoul had been talking for a while now about who knew what. The Vicomte paused for breath and said, "I really am worried about Christine." His tone was grimly serious. "She had such a strange…attachment to the Phantom. Somehow, he'd always been with her, haunting her, every day and night of her life since she came to that opera house. When I fell in love with her, she told me that she wanted to be free of him and yet, it seemed that she couldn't live without him. I just don't understand what he did to her, how he did it."

"Some of those who are mad can have a powerful effect on others," Damien said. "He couldn't control his own life, his own self, so he learned to control all those around him instead."

Raoul thought a moment, and then nodded. "That's an interesting thought. Maybe it's true."

"It is true." Damien rubbed his temples; he had a terrible headache. "He's a master manipulator, from all you've told me and from what I've found. Just look at Alana. A perfectly normal girl, completely…fallen under his spell, if you will, drawn into his madness so deeply that she doesn't even realize what he is. You saw her when she found us. She was absolutely hysterical at seeing him like that, and she wouldn't believe us when we told her what he was, when he confessed it with his own lips." He sighed again. "I only hope that she's not a lost cause…"

"Maybe you can win her over in time." Raoul patted his friend's shoulder encouragingly. "Why would she continue to seek a life with a madman in the dark, always running and hiding, when she could live with you like a queen?"

"Time will have to answer that, I suppose…I wonder where Alana is now. I really must speak to her before long."

The men's noise kept Damien and Raoul from hearing the footsteps hurrying down the hallway, and from seeing a small figure in white flash past the open door.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Alana couldn't believe her luck. She'd made it all the way upstairs without being caught. A few servants had seen her, shooting her bewildered, sometimes disapproving glances, and one serving woman had inquired as to her state, but Alana had just walked right on by her without explaining anything. She didn't have the time.

She rushed down the hall, found Cerise's room, and knocked on the door, hoping and praying that no one she knew would see her. There was no answer, so she knocked again. Mere seconds crawled by. Finally, the door slowly opened, and Alana pushed her way through.

"What? Alana?" From the looks of it Cerise had just gotten out of bed. She blinked at her cousin in confusion and then her eyes grew wide with alarm as she took in Alana's bedraggled appearance, her torn nightgown, and the cuts on her feet. "What's going on?"

"You have to help me," Alana said breathlessly, quickly closing the bedroom door and moving far enough away from it so she could speak freely. "Erik's been hurt." She could see questions in Cerise's eyes, but she didn't give her cousin time to speak. "He's been hurt, very badly. I found him, and I helped him as best I could, but it's not enough. I've got him in a hunting shed down in the woods by the river, and I need some food and water and bandages and things to take to him! We have to hurry! I don't know if he can make it…"

Cerise held up a hand. "Wait…what? How did Erik get hurt, and how did you two get all the way to the woods? I saw where they were when we rode in…that's a bit of a walk, and it's barely past dawn. What on earth were you doing?" She raised a suspicious eyebrow.

"I'll tell you when we're on the way!" Alana said, frustrated. There wasn't time for explaining anything! Every minute that passed could put Erik's life more in danger as he suffered from his wounds. She didn't know if she had treated them well enough to save his life. "I don't think I can carry everything we need by myself, so I need you to help me. Will you?"

Cerise put her hands on her hips. "If you'll tell me what's going on!" Her voice rose. "This sounds serious!"

"It is!" Alana stamped her foot impatiently. "All I have time to say now is that Erik can't come back to the chateau. There are people here who want him dead, and they think they've killed him. But I found him, he's alive, and he needs our help. Now, can you go and find the kitchen and get some food we can carry with us? And something to drink. And bandages! I need to run to my room and change out of this gown so I won't be so suspicious-looking. Can we meet back here as soon as possible?"

Cerise gave her a perplexed, slightly irritated look, but nodded. "Yes, of course. As long as you give me a full explanation later." She went to the armoire in the room and quickly seized something to wear.

"I will," Alana promised. She helped her cousin button up her dress in the back, and pulled her quickly by the hand to the door as Cerise tried to fix her hair. "Now go! Don't tell anyone about what's really going on here. Whatever you do, don't mention his name!"

"All right!" Cerise let go of her hand and went back to grab a small bag to carry things with before they both hurried out into the hall and Alana disappeared into her room.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Cerise made her way down the grand staircase, holding onto the ornately carved marble banister and hoping that she didn't fall down the stairs. She still struggled to push away the fog of sleepiness over her brain; she'd only gotten a few hours' sleep before being woken by Alana all of a sudden. A feeling of dread had crept into her heart at what her cousin had told her, and only grew stronger the more awake she became.

_What am I even doing? _Cerise wondered as she reached the bottom of the staircase, her footsteps echoing on the floor. The grand room looked so different now than it had last night, completely empty except for a few servants here and there cleaning.

A bit hesitantly, she approached one of the maids. "Excuse me." The maid looked at her expectantly. "Do you know where I might get some bandages? My…cousin has hurt herself and needs some."

"Yes of course." The woman nodded. "If you'll wait right here, mademoiselle, I'll bring them to you shortly." She turned and headed off down one of the hallways, leaving Cerise alone with her thoughts, which grew clearer by the moment.

_What have I gotten myself into? Why in the world would someone shoot Erik, and also, why would he and Alana have been out in the woods last night? Why would anyone have been out there? _It was evident that something strange was going on at the chateau, and she wondered how deep into it her cousin was. Cerise needed to make sure that she and Alana made it back home to Paris safely, but now, she was worried that maybe, there was some possibility that things would somehow become very, very different. She had no idea what the near future would bring, and she was beginning to feel very afraid.

"Mademoiselle?" Cerise jumped as someone spoke, and spun around to face the maid, who was standing in front of her, carrying two rolls of bandages. She breathed a sigh of relief. "Oh, thank you."

"It's my pleasure, mademoiselle," the maid said with a curtsy. "Should I call for a doctor for your cousin?"

Cerise shook her head. "Oh, no, the injury is quite manageable, but…it may keep her in her room for some time, so would it be all right if I could bring some food from the kitchen to her?"

The maid looked back at her a bit strangely for a moment, but then nodded, smiling, and said, "Yes, mademoiselle, follow me."

She led Cerise through the halls and down a short flight of stairs into the servant's quarters. The people that they passed shot confused glances her way, but they said nothing to her. Soon Cerise began to hear the loud clattering of pots and pans, and then they turned into the kitchen.

Cooks and servants were everywhere, washing dishes and cooking all different types of food. "Now, what is it you wish to bring for your cousin?"

"Hmm." Cerise hadn't really thought about it. "Some bread...and some apples and grapes as well, I think, things that won't spoil too quickly."

The maid looked at her strangely again.

"Oh, my cousin is very concerned about things spoiling in the open air…she…got ill once, from eating something spoiled…oh! Could I also bring her a flask of water, and another of wine?"

That earned her another suspicious glance, but the maid curtsied. "Yes, mademoiselle. I'll bring everything you've requested." In no time, she'd delivered the food and drink and Cerise had put it all in the bag she'd brought with her.

"Thank you so much for all your help," she said to the maid as they climbed up the stairs to the main floor. "I don't know what I would have done without you!"

"It's my pleasure, mademoiselle," the maid said with a stra Cerise was about to open her mouth to speak again when they turned the corner, and she bumped straight into someone. To her horror, she realized that she'd collided with a man…not just any man.

Damien.

"Oh, Mademoiselle Cerise! I'm sorry, I wasn't looking where I was going. Are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine," she answered with a nervous laugh as she ran her fingers through her hair. She could feel her face burning. _He looks so handsome today…_

"What are you doing up so early this morning?" he asked. "And with that bag there? Are you leaving us already?"

"I…er…no," Cerise said. "I always wake up this early! And I'm taking these things to my cousin's room. She's not feeling at all well, I'm afraid."

Damien's cheerful expression darkened considerably. "What's the matter with her?"

"I'm not quite sure," Cerise answered. "I think perhaps the ball may have been a bit too much for her."

The Comte cleared his throat. "Yes, perhaps. Should we send for a doctor?"

Cerise shook her head, maybe a bit too quickly. "No, not yet anyway. Alana isn't very fond of doctors, but if her condition worsens, then yes, we might send for one."

"Very well then," said Damien, "Please tell Alana that I sincerely hope she feels better soon."

"I will," Cerise said softly. She curtsied, and then quickly walked off down the hallway.

When she made it back to her room, Alana was inside, fully dressed and with her hair tied up. She had some candles and matches in a small patch she was carrying, and she looked extremely anxious.

"Where were you?" her cousin demanded. "We don't have all day! Now come on!"

The two of them escaped from the chateau mostly unnoticed. There was no more sign of Damien, just the servants, who almost never looked them in the way. It would be strange, Cerise thought, to have so many people all living in such an enormous house. It was almost like its own little kingdom, separate from the rest of the world.

Alana led the way through a door, and soon they were hurrying across an open green field toward some trees off in the distance. A cold wind was blowing, and the sky was a dull gray with dark clouds on the horizon. Rain was coming soon.

They rushed through the woods, branches tearing at their arms. Cerise wanted to slow down, but Alana was sprinting at a breakneck pace up ahead. They followed the river and charged through another grove of trees until they reached a small hunting shed.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Alana froze in the doorway. Erik was lying on the floor where she'd left him. He looked dead. She just stood there, unable to move for a moment, until she heard Cerise come up behind her, and then heard her gasp. They both just looked at each other for a moment, then Cerise turned her gaze on Erik. Her hands were trembling and her voice shook as she asked, "Is he…dead?"

Alana hurried to his side and knelt down beside him, reaching out a hand to feel the pulse on his neck. She breathed a sigh of relief. "No. He's alive."

Cerise came slowly forward until she was close enough to see his unmasked, mangled face. Her eyes grew wide. "Oh my God," she whispered. Alana watched as her cousin took in the sight of all Erik's terrible injuries.

"Do you know anything about treating wounds?" She asked after a moment.

Cerise looked at her in astonishment, then nodded faintly. "We've had a hospital set up in the church before. There were some bad riots a few months ago near where we live. They got violent, and we had doctors come in and help some of the people who'd been hurt. Mother and I helped nurse some of them. I know a little." She knelt down on the other side of Erik. "Alana, _what happened to him?" _

Alana's chest hurt as she recalled the gut-wrenching memory of seeing the men surrounding Erik, seeing the gypsy man with the bloodied knife, seeing him beating and kicking Erik as he lay on the ground. "I'll tell you after you take a closer look at him. It doesn't look like he's bled too much more since I left him. The cuts on his face do look like they've gotten a bit worse though. I wasn't able to bandage them really properly."

"Is this where he was shot?" Cerise pointed to the strip of linen bandaging the gunshot wound.

Alana swallowed hard and nodded.

Cerise shook her head in disbelief. "Who did this?"

"Can we please just look at the wound first?" Alana burst out. She reached over and carefully undid the bandage. Erik remained unmoving.

Alana watched Cerise examine the wound. "Well, it's not the worst gunshot injury I've seen. The bullet's out…did you get that out all by yourself?"

"No," said Alana. "It went straight through him."

"And was he able to speak or move?"

"Yes."

"Well, he seems to be breathing well enough," Cerise noted. "That's extremely fortunate with a chest wound like this…he's lucky the bullet didn't pierce his heart or a lung."

"It was bleeding, but it was never as terrible as I was afraid it'd be, but he'd been in the river I think, and maybe a lot of the blood came out of the wound in the water. I don't know how much he's lost…" Alana's throat hurt and tears were welling up in her eyes. The man she'd known looked so weak and fragile now as he lay still on the ground. _Please, God, _she begged. _Let him live. _

Cerise cleaned the gunshot wound again with some of the water they'd brought. "I'll have to come back here and sew this up," she said as she bandaged it up again. She proceeded to do the same with the cuts on his face. Alana could see the horror on her cousin's face.

Once she had finished, Cerise immediately turned to her. "Now you can tell me what in God's name happened to Erik. Who shot him?"

"I don't know who the exact person was that shot him…" she began, but then broke off. She had been about to mention Damien's name…

_Damien. _Just his name filled her with rage and a feeling of betrayal. How could he have let those men do such a thing?

But he'd said what Erik had done…

No. It wasn't possible…

She knew that Cerise had feelings for Damien. If she told her cousin what the Comte had done, then Cerise would feel the way Alana felt now. So confused, so hurt, so lost.

"Alana? What happened?" Her cousin was looking at her with concern.

Tearfully, Alana related the story of how she'd seen Christine running to the chateau, gone out to meet her, and been led to the terrible scene where Erik was being tortured by a group of strange men. "But then," she said, "I saw the Vicomte de Chagny. And then I saw Damien."

"What?"

Alana nodded. "He was there. And he wasn't doing anything to help Erik."

"But…but why? He doesn't even know Erik, he only just met him last night…" Alana could see the same shocked disbelief in her cousin's eyes that she'd been feeling.

"He said…" Alana broke off, having trouble saying the words. "Damien said that Erik had…killed his brother. And other people. And done all manner of horrible things. Erik even confessed it himself that it was true…" She wiped a tear from her cheek.

Cerise just shook her head. "Never trust a man in a mask," she muttered.

"What did you just say?"

"I knew there was something he was hiding from you!" Cerise's voice rose. "I just didn't think it would be something this bad! Oh my…I can't believe how much danger you've been in all this time!" She put a hand to her head in amazement.

"What? No…Erik would never hurt me…wait…" Alana could feel a surge of anger coming. "You're not taking their side are you?"

"I don't know, Alana. I don't know what we should do now…should we really even be helping Erik? He's a mad killer…"

"Of course you take Damien's side!" Alana shouted.

"Well, I don't think it's right to torture people, but Erik should be in prison anyway! Oh my Lord…he's the man who's been wanted for the past year, isn't he? He's an insane murderer…it's not safe for us to be around him!"

"Just look at him, Cerise! I don't think he's going to be hurting either one of us!" Alana was shaking all over with anger and despair. "You know, when I first met Erik, I did think there was something strange about him." Cerise opened her mouth to speak but Alana cut her off. "But over time, he really did change….the man I spoke to, the man I danced with at the ball was not the same person I met before. I don't want him to go to prison…I can't imagine a life without him now…"

"You're in love with a murderer," Cerise said bluntly.

"And you're in love with a man who attempted to murder someone! How is Damien any better than Erik?"

"Erik was wanted dead or alive. Damien was just doing his civic duty…"

"Oh, right!" Alana interrupted. "What, by letting a defenseless man get shot and tortured! I saw them beating him, kicking him, while he was lying on the ground, helpless. When I first found them, I saw one of them had been carving up his face with a knife. That's sick!"

Neither one of them said anything for a moment.

"Once Damien was my friend," Alana said finally. "But I can't be friends with someone who would torment and kill the man I love."

Cerise, who was staring down at the floor, gave a faint nod. "You love who you love, I suppose. Maybe you'll change your mind in time, I don't know. But I guess that I would feel the same as you do if Damien had been the one to be attacked. Maybe even if he was the one who had killed people. But Alana, what are you going to do now? You and Erik can't stay in this shed forever! Someone's bound to find you, and then you'll be in trouble for aiding a wanted man. Oh no…now I've gone and aided him too…"

"I haven't really thought that far ahead," Alana admitted. "I don't know! I don't want him to go away by himself when he gets better. Maybe we can find some place, off in the middle of nowhere, where nobody can find us. Maybe we should get out of the country…"

"We?" Cerise held up a hand. "No. You can't run off alone with a man! It's…it's just unthinkable!"

Alana shrugged. "I know, but I've done it before, and everything turned out all right."

Cerise laughed bitterly. "You call _this _all right?"

"Please don't tell anyone about this, Cerise," Alana begged, a plan formulating in her mind.

"Tell them what?"

"That I'm going to stay here with Erik until he's strong enough to move. Then, I'm going with him to find some place where he can be safe. Where he can have a good life."

"You've lost your mind," said Cerise. It was clear her cousin was beyond frustration. "How are you going to make it on the run?"

"I don't know. We'll be all right. Somehow. It will be fine. Please, promise me you won't tell anyone where I've gone!"

"What am I supposed to tell them then?"

Alana thought for a moment. "Tell them I've gone back to Détente, that I've missed it there and that Madame Durand had offered me a room in her home if I wanted to stay for a while, and that I'll be back soon.

Cerise folded her arms tightly across her chest. "I don't want to lie."

"And I don't want to make you, but please, let me do this. I'll find a way to repay you for this, I promise."

Cerise just stared at Alana, her blue eyes full of conflicting emotion. At last, she sighed and said, "Very well. Only because I know how much you care about Erik, and I know how unhappy you would be if something happened to him, or if you had to be separated. I'm not doing this for him by any means." She reached out and took Alana's hand. "I'm doing this for you, because you're my cousin, and my friend, and I love you."

Alana squeezed her hand. "Thank you. And I will keep my promise to you, I swear."

Cerise let go and rose to her feet. "I should go back to the chateau now. I'll be back tonight with some more things and to see how the both of you are doing. If anyone asks, I'll keep telling them that you're ill in bed. If it reaches the point where Damien or someone wants to call for a doctor, then I'll tell them that you're not really ill, you just don't want to come out of your room or talk to anyone because you're suffering from a broken heart." Alana nodded her agreement with her cousin's plan, and Cerise continued. "If anyone asks about Erik, other than Damien or the Vicomte de Chagny, I'll tell them that something happened which required him to leave immediately. Don't worry, Alana. Your secret is safe with me."

A small smile crossed Alana's tearstained face. "Thank you so much."

Cerise gave another bitter laugh. "Don't thank me yet. Thank me when you both get out of this alive."

And with that, she left Alana kneeling by Erik's side, and set off back toward the chateau as thunder rumbled overhead.


	34. Hauntings

Chapter 34

Hauntings

"_The murdered do haunt their murderers, I believe. I know that ghosts have wandered on earth. Be with me always—take any form—drive me mad!"_ –Emily Bronte

Christine stood by the window, watching the rain fall and trying not to look at her own tearful reflection in the glass pane. Though a warm fire was blazing on the other side of the bedroom, she shivered, feeling cold and numb all over.

The world had been forever changed.

She didn't know how things could go on, now that he was gone.

As she stood there gazing out at the gloomy evening, she recalled a time not so long ago, a time she wished she could return to, so that she could alter the events that had taken place then and would not have to feel this way now. The memory of Raoul's words whispered into her mind…

_"You said yourself, he was nothing but a man…yet while he lives, he will haunt us 'til we're dead…"_

"You're wrong, Raoul."

"What was that?"

Christine started at her husband's voice. She hadn't realized she'd spoken out loud, and she'd also forgotten he was in the room with her. She turned to him and he looked at her, confusion and concern on his face as he put on an elegant blue jacket. It was almost time for supper, Christine recalled vaguely. She didn't want to go. She couldn't imagine eating now…or doing anything, for that matter.

"Christine?" Raoul moved closer to her, and she took a step back away from him. "What am I wrong about?"

_So many things. _Christine felt herself trembling all over and her voice quivered as she said, "He won't stop, you know." She saw frustration emerge on Raoul's face as he realized what she was talking about, but she couldn't help but continue. "He may be dead…but he's not gone. He's still there, in my mind." She shivered again. "He'll always be there."

Her husband sighed and put his hands on her shoulders, but she flinched at his touch and walked across the room. "It's over, Christine. Things _will _change in time. I know they will."

"You know nothing!" she shouted. "He's been a part of me for so long…his body may have been destroyed, but his spirit…it's still there. And it always will be. I can still hear him, even now. His music, his voice, it's stronger than ever." She put her hand to her head. "Don't you see? I can never escape it. We'll never be free of him."

"Christine, I…"

"It shouldn't have happened the way it did." Christine shuddered at the memory of the man being broken body and soul the night before. "We should have tried to reconcile with him, to make our peace! Then, maybe, we could have been free!"

"We are free! He's dead, and gone. He can't hurt us anymore, not if we don't let him." Raoul turned his back on her to face the mirror on the wall and adjust his hair.

"Erik…" Christine could hardly speak the word. "Erik was his name…why did I never ask him for his name?" Tears sprang to her eyes as memories of every word he'd spoken, every song he'd sung, everything he'd ever done in the years she'd known him all rushed through her mind at once. There were so many things he had done for her, and in all that time, what had she done for him? Not even asked him what his name was.

Raoul caught sight of her crying in the mirror's reflection. "Sweetheart." He moved closer to her, and this time, Christine did not back away. She let him pull her into an embrace. "I think you should see a doctor…"

Immediately she pulled away. "No! It won't help! Nothing will…"

"But it wouldn't hurt…"

_He can't really be suggesting this. _The thought of seeing a doctor filled her with dread. "They'd put me in an asylum, Raoul. I know." _The nightmare would only grow worse._ "You and I would be separated, and then I would have nothing left in all the world. I can't lose you now." As angry as she was with him for plotting to kill the Phantom, and recruiting her to help with that plan, she realized that Raoul was all she had and in spite of everything, she still loved him.

"I love you, Christine," Raoul said, "and I hate to see you like this. Please, darling, clean yourself up and come down to supper with me. Let us try and put these things behind us. In time, we'll forget." He spoke with complete, unwavering certainty.

"You may forget, Raoul. I hope you can. But I'll never forget. He was called a phantom in life …how much more will he haunt us now that he's dead?"

"Please, darling." Her husband's voice was strangely calm for someone who had allowed a murder to take place, Christine thought. "Come downstairs with me. The food and drink and company will do you some good."

Though all she wanted to do was…nothing, Christine sighed and said, "Very well." Then she went to wash her tearstained face, dress, and apply powder and rouge that felt altogether too much like a mask.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Cerise descended the grand staircase, feeling anything but grand. She was wearing one of the nicer dresses that she and Alana had packed, a cool blue gown that made her eyes look brighter than ever, but still she felt outclassed by the others who were gathering in one of the chateau's sitting rooms as they awaited supper. As she walked into the room, she thought she felt the eyes of all the aristocrats there, looking her up and down with disapproval. She couldn't wait to return home and escape from all the feelings of inferiority she had around the rich nobles, but at the same time she adored the chateau and deep down, she wished more than anything that she could belong in a place like that.

Across the room Cerise glimpsed Damien, and their eyes met. She knew she was blushing, and that made her face burn even more. He began heading toward her, and her heart started beating faster. In spite of what Alana had told her about Damien, she still couldn't deny she had feelings for him. And was that so strange, if Alana still loved Erik after hearing about all the things he'd done? _Oh, my parents would be so displeased with us if they knew about the men in our lives…_

"Good evening, Mademoiselle Cerise," Damien said after a slight bow. "You're looking well."

Cerise curtsied and smiled. "As are you, monsieur."

"And your cousin? Has she improved any?"

Cerise felt her face fall. "A little, perhaps. She's not quite well enough to join us for supper yet, however."

And then his face darkened as well, making Cerise's mood worsen more. "Well, that's indeed a shame. Please, continue to tell her that I sincerely hope her health improves soon. In fact…" his eyes brightened. "I'll send for a doctor in the morning. It wouldn't hurt for her to receive a full medical report. He could be here by afternoon tomorrow."

Cerise swallowed hard, and rubbed her sweating palms on her skirts. "Tomorrow, monsieur? Are you quite certain you wouldn't mind going to all that trouble? Besides, Alana isn't very fond of…"

"I assure you, Mademoiselle Cerise, it would be no trouble at all. And while your cousin may have a certain aversion to doctors, it would be best for her to at least be examined by one. He will be arriving tomorrow, without fail."

She nodded, hoping she didn't look as nervous as she felt. "Very well then, I'll warn her in advance as soon as dinner is over." Damien flashed a smile that made her want to melt, and then the valet came into the room to tell them that their meal was served.

Much to her displeasure, Cerise found herself being seated next to Seraphine. She avoided the dark-haired Comtesse's gaze, even when she was asked about Alana's absence. Out of the corner of her eye, Cerise glimpsed Damien's parents, seated on either side of him, casting disapproving glances at her. Her heart sank, and once again she realized just how much she longed to go home.

Four of the seats at the table were empty, and the diners looked about impatiently as they waited for them to arrive so they could begin eating.

"Mademoiselle Valjean?"

Cerise turned to face Damien, who was looking strangely at one of the empty places. "Yes, Comte?"

"Do you know if Monsieur…Erik will be joining us tonight?" As he spoke a dark haired woman and a ginger haired man entered the room, the latter apologizing to everyone for being late. After a moment, Cerise recognized them as Raoul and Christine de Chagny, the ones who'd helped Damien with Erik's undoing. She noticed both of them pale a little as they heard what the Comte was saying.

"Oh…I don't think so. I haven't seen or heard from him the entire day," Cerise said.

"Really?" Damien was a good actor, Cerise had to admit. The Comte looked genuinely surprised to hear it. "Well, that's curious."

"Yes…isn't it? I think perhaps we should stop waiting for him to arrive; I think it highly unlikely that he'll be joining us."

Damien nodded slowly. "Yes, I think you're right."

The long line of dinner courses was delicious, but Cerise couldn't wait for it to end. Some of the guests talked on and on about things she had no knowledge of, and her end of the table, with Damien and his parents, Seraphine, and the de Chagnys was strangely quiet. There was the occasional small talk here and there, but it was clear that there was something unspoken between everyone on that side of the table. Something terribly wrong.

Cerise wondered frankly how Damien and the de Chagnys could show their faces after what they'd done...or tried to do. They were just pretending as if nothing had happened, but then again…nobody else knew anything had taken place. Nobody but Alana and herself.

Once the last course had been eaten, the party retired to another room to drink and play cards, but Cerise quickly stole away unnoticed. As she hurried up the stairs and down the hall to her room, she could feel her heart pounding wildly as her thoughts raced in a panic. She'd had to keep a cool head while she was downstairs with everyone, but now that she was on her own, the dangerous reality of her situation had hit her. But a plan was starting to form in her mind…a plan that had to work if she, Alana, and Erik ever wanted to have a normal life again…and in Erik's case, any life at all. She was afraid though, that there was no escape for any of them. Alana had been in too deep, and had dragged her down too. She shook the frightening thoughts from her mind and concentrated on the task at hand.

When she got to her room, she took up the sewing kit she'd brought so that she could work on embroidery if she got bored during the carriage ride. Now she was going to have to use it to sew up a man's gunshot wound, she thought with a shudder. She tucked some extra matches and candles into her small cloth bag, put on a cloak, and left the room, sneaking her way out of the chateau. The wind pulled at her skirts and rain soaked into her cloak as lightning lit up the landscape. The brief periodic flashes of light were all it took for Cerise to find the way back to the hunting shed.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

_Alana woke in her room at the house back in Détente. She blinked several times, confused. _What am I doing here? _She wondered. Up above, she could hear the sound of rain falling on the roof, and it sounded different than what she remembered from rainy nights past. She got out of bed and left her room, finding herself walking down the hall to the kitchen. What she saw there made her gasp. _

_ A petite brunette woman stood at the stove, stirring something in a pot as the familiar smell of what was once her family's favorite stew filled the room. _

_ "Mother," she whispered. _

_ Una turned and smiled at her. "Alana. Would you mind helping me finish this supper? Your father will be coming in any moment!"_

_ "Wait." Alana rushed across the room and wrapped her arms tightly around her mother, who dropped her stirring spoon, but hugged her daughter back just as tightly._

_ After a moment, Una stepped back, smiling. "What was that for, sweetheart?"_

_ Alana wiped a tear from her eye. "It's because I love you." She blinked again, and pinched her arm. Maybe everything had been a dream. Maybe Erik, her time in Paris, the nightmare at the chateau…maybe none of it had ever happened. Maybe she still lived here on the farm just outside Détente, with her mother and her father. Maybe Andre had never been…the way he was. Maybe he was the way he'd been before. _

_ "I love you too, Alana," Una said as she tucked a stray piece of her daughter's hair back into place. Suddenly, there was a deafening clap of thunder outside, and both of them started. "That's strange." Una looked out the window. "It's not raining, and the wind isn't blowing."_

_ Before Alana could respond, she heard the sound of someone fiddling with the lock on the front door. "Oh! That must be Father…" She found herself holding her breath as the door slowly opened. _

_ There was Andre in the doorway, but he didn't look right. His eyes were wide and vacant, his brow furrowed as if in pain. His mouth hung open slightly and his body was strangely rigid, the breast of his blue jacket quickly growing more and more stained with…blood._

_ Behind her, Una screamed as Andre fell forward, crashing onto the floor. Alana swayed, nearly fainting, and then she saw what had been behind her father. _

_ Erik stood there, unmasked, holding up a smoking revolver. He stared back at Alana and her mother, murder in his eyes. _

_ "E—Erik? What…how?"_

_ The monstrous figure before her turned and slammed the door behind him. Without thinking, Alana ran across the kitchen, trembling all over as she maneuvered around her father's body. She reached for the door handle and pulled. Nothing happened, so she pulled and pulled again. But it was stuck. Somehow, Erik had locked them in from the outside. _

_ "Alana…do you smell smoke?" Her mother's voice shook._

_ And then the room filled with smoke, as flames began to engulf their entire home…_

"Alana! Alana! Wake up!" She opened her eyes to find Cerise shaking her awake. Wiping the cold sweat from her forehead, she blinked in the dim light of the candles her cousin must have lit, and shivered from the memory of the nightmare. "Bad dream?" Cerise asked, looking worried. Alana nodded, and the other girl wrapped a comforting arm around her shoulder. "I'm sorry, cousin." She sighed. "I wish I could bring you better news."

Alana only half heard what Cerise was saying. So it hadn't all been a dream…her mother was still dead, and her father was still…well…not quite the man he once was. The only thing that was real was that Erik was a killer. While she tried to reassure herself that he did not kill Andre, and didn't attempt to burn her and her mother alive, the dream still chilled her to the bone.

"Are you listening?" Cerise asked her.

"Oh…what?" Alana shook her head, trying to pay attention to what her cousin was saying.

"I said, Damien told me that he's sending for a doctor in the morning to make sure nothing is seriously wrong with you…"

"Oh no. You can't be serious."

"I'm afraid I am," Cerise said. "He really does care about you, you know."

Alana felt a prick of annoyance at the mention of the Comte, and she recalled with disgust now the day the two of them had shared a kiss. "Well, I'll have to go back to the chateau before the doctor arrives then, won't I?"

Cerise nodded, and Alana turned to look at Erik, lying still beside her. He looked so…hurt, so weak. Nothing like the homicidal monster in her nightmare. Now, he couldn't hurt anyone. He was in desperate need of help. "I hate to leave Erik here alone…" she began.

"Just listen to the plan I've thought out," Cerise interrupted. "Tonight, I try and sew up that gunshot wound of his, and when I leave, you come with me. You'll go back into your room, clean yourself up, and get in bed, where you'll be when the doctor arrives tomorrow afternoon. By then, you'll have made a…miraculous recovery, and when he examines you, he'll find nothing wrong. Then we'll be free to leave. We'll pack up our things, send for our carriage and driver again, and be on our way home."

"That's all well and good," Alana admitted. "But what about Erik?"

"I was getting to that," Cerise said with a toss of her auburn hair. "Once we've gotten a ways from the chateau, we'll tell our driver to take a little detour, off road just a bit so that we'll all be out of sight. Then, you and I will come back here to the shed, and help Erik to the carriage. We'll pay our driver extra not to ask any questions or tell any tales of what's happened, and we'll drive back home. Then…I'm honestly not sure what we're going to have to do with Erik."

"It's as good a plan as any I suppose," said Alana. "I don't see any other possible way." She stopped to think for a moment. "As for what to do with Erik once we get back to Paris…I think I may know someone who can help us."

Cerise shrugged. "Whatever it takes to get us out of this mess."

"We _will _get out of this, Cerise. I promise. It'll all be over soon."


	35. Fatal Oath

Chapter Thirty-five

"_Fear of something is at the root of hate for others, and hate within will eventually destroy the hater."_ -George Washington Carver

Fatal Oath

After staying in the dark, dingy hunting shed for so long, a bath in the luxurious chateau suite felt like heaven. Once she'd finished bathing and drying, Alana put on the nightgown Cerise had left for her, since her own had been torn to bits. She crawled into the impossibly soft, warm bed and tried to relax as she waited for the physician to arrive. Without realizing it, she must have dozed off, because she found herself waking to the sound of the door slamming shut.

"The doctor's coming!" Cerise said breathlessly as she sank into an armchair. "I've packed all my things in my room, so I'll be ready to leave as soon as you are."

Alana yawned. "All right. Now, what are my symptoms again? I was feverish, sick to my stomach, my head still aches a little…"

"And you had a bad cough, but it's nearly gone now," her cousin reminded her.

Alana laughed and gave a faint cough, and just moments later there was a knock on her door.

"Come in!" Cerise called, as Alana feigned a cough again.

The doctor entered the room with his black bag in hand, and after a few pleasantries, began inquiring as to Alana's symptoms. She recited the list of false problems, and the doctor felt her head, and examined her throat, continuing to ask her more questions.

"I have been feeling much better though, doctor," she said, seeing the slight annoyance on the man's face as he realized after further examination that there was nothing wrong with her.

"Yes…it seems whatever plagued you before is a thing of the past." The physician packed his bag again. "You're in excellent health, all right to get out of bed and go about your daily business. The master of the house has already paid the fee for this examination, so I take my leave of you now, mademoiselles. Good day to you both." And with that, he left.

"I'm going downstairs to tell Damien that you're better and ready to return home. While I'm gone, you hurry up and pack your things. Don't get too comfortable in that bed!" she said with a laugh as she too left the room.

Alana groaned. She _was _too comfortable, but reluctantly she dragged herself up out of bed and started to pack. Her stomach fluttered with anxiety as it had ever since the night she followed Christine to the awful scene where she'd found Erik. Soon, it would all be over…or so she hoped.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

"Ah, Mademoiselle Cerise," said Damien as she approached him, grinning. "I trust from the smile on your face that your cousin's received a clean bill of health?"

Cerise nodded. "Yes, she's feeling much better, and we'll be leaving shortly."

"Very well. I'll call a carriage for you straightaway."

Cerise hesitated at first, but then dared to ask, "Have you seen Monsieur Erik around at all? We haven't seen him since the ball, and we have to return to Paris as soon as possible so my parents don't worry about Alana and me..."

Damien shook his head. "No I haven't; however, earlier this morning a note with an urgent message was sent up to Monsieur Erik's room, and I did see a carriage leave the estate shortly thereafter. I can only guess that your friend was suddenly called away on important business."

He spoke the lie in such a calm voice, with such ease that it made Cerise feel sick to her stomach. _Maybe Alana was right to be angry with him…_

But then she looked at him again…at that handsome face, those deep, dark eyes…and she felt weak at the knees. She still felt something for him, and she wondered…what would it take to make those feelings go away?

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Alana had finished packing by the time that Cerise came back to tell her they'd be meeting Damien downstairs in half an hour to say goodbye. She rolled her eyes. If she ever saw that man again it would be too soon. When Cerise had left to make sure she had all her own things ready to go, Alana slipped out of the room as well.

She walked down the halls, trying to remember where the servant had said Erik's room was the night of the ball. What number was it? She stopped at a room with the number 23 painted on the door…the number sounded familiar enough to her, so she reached out and turned the knob. Luck was with her; the door was unlocked, and she walked into the room.

It was Erik's room, all right, A costume, half black and half white, lay draped over an armchair, a black mask was set on a nightstand, and other clothes were spread across the room. Lying face down on the floor was a book that Alana soon recognized as the Bible she'd given Erik. She felt both happiness and sadness as she knelt down to pick it up.

He'd actually been reading it…it was the last thing he had done before he was lured into the trap that nearly killed him. She turned the book over, and one passage on the page jumped out to her. _"Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things."_

Of all the things he could have read, that was what Erik had turned to? Did that mean…he was in love with her too? He had kissed her, after all. What a beautiful time they had had that night. But if he did love her, then why in the world had he gone outside with Christine at such an hour? Maybe he was still in love with the other woman, and was only confused about his feelings for Alana. She knew she was certain about what she felt for him. She could've sworn he felt the same.

Alana made herself stop thinking. All she knew was that she was extremely confused, and she desperately wished for a chance to talk to Erik and figure out what exactly was going on between them. She didn't know when that chance would come. Banishing the thoughts from her mind, she took up the Bible, mask, and clothes, and put them in the unmarked suitcase Erik had brought.

Carrying the suitcase, she left the room and headed back to her own hall. She turned the first corner and narrowly avoided running into a man coming from the opposite direction. He did not excuse himself or apologize, but he met Alana's gaze.

Her breath caught in her throat as the gypsy man smirked at her, just as he had when she'd seen him bent over Erik, holding a knife dripping with his blood.

"Please, excuse me, mademoiselle," he said finally. "Could I help you with that suitcase there? It looks…rather heavy for a woman to carry."

Alana just stared at him for a moment. Her blood had turned to ice, and she felt herself panicking. Finally she gathered enough strength to speak. "No." She could not hide the hatred in her voice. "I know who you are, and I know what you've done. Get away from me." She pushed past him and turned the corner without looking back.

Soon she was standing with Cerise in their hallway, setting down Erik's suitcase along with the rest of their luggage. She felt her cousin eying her closely. "What?"

"Is something wrong?"

Alana shook her head. "I'm just nervous…that this won't work."

"It'll work." Cerise said warmly. "I'm going to help you get out of this mess. Everything will be fine, you'll see." Both of them turned at the sound of footsteps. Two servants had arrived to bring their suitcases downstairs.

They reached the bottom of the stairs, and Alana's breath caught in her throat as she caught sight of the man standing in the center of the room.

_Damien._

His name, his face, everything in his being made her burn with hatred.

"Mademoiselles Valjean," the Comte said with a bow. "It has been a pleasure hosting the two of you. I trust your health has greatly improved, Alana?"

_Say something. _Alana vaguely realized she was standing there still and silent as a statue. "Yes, it has. I'm still a bit tired, but I'm feeling much better. My cousin and I thank you for your hospitality," she forced herself to say in the most even tone she could manage. All she wanted to do was fling herself at him, to scream and tear and beat at him, to make him feel just a little of the pain he'd made Erik feel.

Cerise continued to speak with Damien while the carriage was being loaded with their things, but Alana didn't hear a word of the conversation until the Comte said, "I do hope we'll all see each other again when I return to Paris." He was gazing right at her, his eyes seeming to plead with her that she would agree to see him again.

_I hope I never see you again as long as I live. _

When Alana said nothing, Cerise answered, "I'm sure we'll be seeing a lot of each other. It will be a pleasure, as always. Now, I think my cousin and I should get to our carriage."

"Right." Damien swallowed hard. "I'll see you out."

After a short goodbye, Alana looked out the carriage window and watched as the Comte grew smaller and smaller and eventually faded into the distance.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The Comte de Bellamy watched the carriage begin to drive away, a painful tightness in his throat.

_Alana will never want to see me again. Not after what I did to Erik. _

He felt no remorse for what he had done. He knew he'd done the right thing, even done the world a favor, by forever ridding it of a man with such a dark history of evil deeds. But he saw the pain in Alana's eyes, and it hurt that his actions had brought about that suffering in her. Maybe she could forgive him someday. She was such a kind, gentle woman. Surely she would not be able to harbor anger in her heart towards him forever. They had enjoyed happy times together before, and perhaps they could again. No, he wasn't ready to give up on her yet.

"Good afternoon, my lord."

Damien started. Somehow he'd missed the sound of approaching footsteps. "Emilian." He nodded to the gypsy man.

"Fine day, is it not, my lord?" Emilian looked off into the distance.

"Yes, very fine," Damien replied, slightly annoyed. It was clear the other man had something else that he wanted to say.

He didn't have to wait long to find out what it was. "That coach that left just a moment ago," Emilian began, "is it carrying the blonde haired girl from the other night?"

"Yes." Damien's eyes narrowed. "Why?"

The other man shrugged nonchalantly. "I ran into her on the way downstairs…in the hallway where the unattached male guests were rooming."

"Where are you going with this?" The Comte folded his arms across his chest.

Emilian seemed to enjoy watching him in suspense. "She was carrying a man's suitcase." He paused for a moment and then asked, "Was there another man accompanying her?"

"No," Damien said firmly. "Just the one." He still didn't know what Emilian was getting at. "Perhaps she was getting some of the things he left in his room, to remember him by. She was quite attached to that man, as you saw. Now tell me, just what about this encounter has you so interested?"

Emilian shrugged his shoulders again.

Damien thought for a moment. "Wait. I remember…the other night, Alana said she recognized you…that you had…attacked her on the road!" He moved until his face was just inches from Emilian's and his hands were close enough to wrap around the gypsy man's throat. "Stay away from her." His grip tightened. "You leave her alone, understand?"

"She's…nothing to me," he gasped. Damien let him go and he rubbed his neck slowly, wincing a little.

"And she'd better stay nothing to you, because if you ever think about laying even a finger on her…"

"You'll what, my lord?"

"I'll have you arrested," Damien said coolly. "Or worse. Don't think I won't."

"Oh, I don't doubt you, Monsieur Comte," Emilian said, holding his hands up in submission. "As I was saying, the girl is of no importance to me. I was merely suspicious is all."

Damien tried not to roll his eyes. "Suspicious of what? Her having that suitcase?"

Emilian nodded, watching as the carriage disappeared over a hill. "It's just that…the Devil's Child always seemed to find a way to escape…"

"Not this time. You know as well as I that there is no way he could have possibly survived."

Emilian grunted his agreement. "What I really came to tell you after all is that I'll be leaving today, my lord. Going back to Paris. Try and find some work."

Damien laughed. "Have you seen things in the city lately? You'll never find decent work there." Despite his occasional distaste for the man, the Comte had to admit that Emilian had been a great help to him and Raoul. Perhaps he could continue to reward him. "Why don't you stay on here instead?" he offered. "You've been quite a bit of help to me. You could be a footman, or server, or coachman…"

"Coachman." Emilian put his hand to his chin and looked up in thought. "Now there's an idea. I'll accept that offer, good monsieur. Shall I get started today then?"

A bit taken aback at the man's eagerness, Damien nodded. "If you wish. I know there are several other guests who are going to be leaving this afternoon. You can go and get outfitted and take one of their parties back to their homes. You can either choose to come back here or stay on at my city house. Your choice."

"We shall see, my lord." Emilian bowed deeply.

"I think I'll go to the stables to check on the new stallion my father's bought. Go and find Monsieur Ames inside; he can find a uniform for you." He turned on his heel and left the newly hired coachman grinning to himself.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Alana looked out the carriage window, her heart already beginning to race. "We're out of sight here...we should stop now." She turned in her seat and rapped on the pane of glass that separated them from their driver. The carriage slowed to a halt, and both girls climbed out.

"Is there a problem, mademoiselles?" The driver asked.

"No, there's no problem here," Alana said. "We just need to please turn and drive into that meadow." She pointed to the wide grassy field to their right.

The driver raised an eyebrow. "Might I ask why, mademoiselle?"

"Please, just do it. We'll pay you an additional sum of money when we get back to Paris if you do."

The man thought for a moment and then let out a long sigh. "Very well, mademoiselles."

Alana and Cerise stepped aside as he guided the two chestnut horses off the road and into the meadow, and they set off toward the woods on the edge of it.

"What are you doing?" They heard the driver shout after them.

"Don't worry!" Cerise called to him. "We'll be back soon! Don't go anywhere!" They left him shaking his head and muttering to himself as they disappeared into the trees.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The first sensations on waking were pain and cold, the first sight nothing but darkness. Erik blinked in the dark and turned his head, trying to rise. Movement hurt, so he lay back down, working to remember where he was and what had happened to him. Despite the pain, he raised his hand up to touch the right side of his face. It was covered with a layer of cloth. Bandages.

Immediately he remembered, physical and emotional pain coursing through him once again. _Where is Alana?_ He thought. _I'm alone here…_

He had a terrible thought that she had changed her mind about helping him, about loving him…and that she had abandoned him to die alone in the dark. He wouldn't blame her if she did.

But then there was a crash, and a sudden flash of light that sent him backing quickly away into the shadows, putting his hands over his eyes to shield them from the light. His back struck the wall and he grimaced with pain.

"Erik! You're awake!" Alana was standing there with her cousin, both of them looking at him with surprise.

Hearing her voice again gave Erik the strength to inch forward slowly. "Yes…" he managed to croak out the word, breathing heavily from the exertion of moving and the alarm caused by the girls' sudden entrance. "…what's going on?"

"We have to get you out of here." She spoke quickly, her gaze intense. "Now's our only chance. We have a carriage waiting just outside of these woods. Do you think you can walk? Cerise and I can help you."

Erik closed his eyes, letting out a sigh. Every movement hurt. But he knew he had to get up. He feared death more than he feared pain; he had endured years of physical torture, and he would survive. He'd always pulled through, even as a child. He'd survive now. Slowly, he made himself rise to his knees, every inch of his body stiff and sore. Alana held out a hand to help him, but he waved it aside, shaking his head. He could do this. One foot at a time, he rose until he was standing freely, swaying slightly. Then, he took a step. Immediately he felt himself falling, and two pairs of arms reaching out to catch him before he fell all the way to the floor. A groan of pain escaped his lips, but with their support he raised himself up again.

_Be strong, _he told himself over and over. _Be strong._

"Let's go," he whispered, and the three of them began to move towards the door. Erik hesitated for a moment, wincing at the light.

"Erik," came Alana's voice, and he turned to look down into those eyes, those beautiful eyes he loved. "It's all right."

He took a step forward, then another, and another, and then they were walking through the woods. All were silent, focusing all their efforts on the task at hand; Erik staying on his feet, and Alana and Cerise holding him up, refusing to let him fall. At last, they came out of the woods, where a carriage and driver stood waiting, looking strangely out of place off road in the sunny meadow.

Erik stopped in his tracks, panic rising up inside him. "What is this?" He asked, lowering his voice so only Alana and her cousin would hear. "No one can see me! Everyone thinks I'm dead…don't they?"

"This man doesn't know a thing about it," Alana said softly. "Besides, with half your face bandaged I don't think he'll recognize you even if he knew who you were. And we've said we'll pay him extra when we make it back to Paris. If he doesn't ask questions, we'll pay him even more."

Erik just shook his head wearily. There was no way he could let these two women get any more involved in this. "Go on without me…don't endanger yourselves."

"Oh, be quiet!" Alana said with a toss of her hair. "Come on now. Just a little bit farther, you're doing so well. Just a little bit more, and you'll be able to rest again. Come on."

Erik sighed. There would be no convincing her to leave him. That was another thing he loved about her. Somewhat reluctantly, he moved forward, and the driver of the carriage turned around when he heard them coming. Erik felt the man looking him up and down, shaking his head incredulously.

"What in God's name is this?" he yelled, unable to maintain his professional composure.

"The less questions you ask," said Alana's cousin, "the better paid you'll be when we get back to Paris."

Slowly and with the help of the two women, Erik limped towards the carriage, and Alana opened the door. "You're going to have to step up now." She grimaced in anticipation of the pain he would feel. "Can you manage it?"

Erik nodded and shrugged free of both of them despite their protests. He reached out to take hold of the door for support, and slowly raised one leg up to step inside, and the other to climb in. As soon as he was inside he lost his balance and crashed onto the floor, dragging himself onto the seat. He lay there breathing heavily, completely exhausted by the effort, but thinking to himself with something like pride, _I made it. _

Looking at him sympathetically, Alana and Cerise climbed in after him and sat on the opposite seat. "We're ready to go now, driver!" Cerise called, and soon they were off. "What are we going to do with him now?" Alana's cousin asked after a while.

"Erik?" At Alana's voice he opened his eyes, trying to keep his exhaustion from pulling him into sleep against his will. "Do you know where we can find your friend Madame Giry?"

Erik did not recall Alana knowing Madame Giry personally. Apparently they had met at some time, probably while Alana was visiting the Comte de Bellamy. "The last time I saw her…she and her daughter were living underground with me…in my old home. They may have found somewhere else to live by now. I'm not sure. If we can reach that place undetected, however, we should all be safe."

"Where is this place?" Alana asked.

It pained him to say it. "The Opera Populaire."

He heard Cerise gasp. "The opera house? Hasn't it been destroyed? I heard there was a fire…"

"Yes, that's right."

He dared to glance at her, and she stared back, almost unbelieving. "So…you were the Phantom of the Opera, weren't you?"

He nodded and she looked at him coolly.

"Cerise, he's not the same man he was then." Alana smiled at him just a little. "Get some rest now, Erik. We'll tell the driver to drop us off somewhere near the Opera House."

_I love you_, Erik thought, drifting off to sleep as the two women continued their conversation.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Just hours after the first carriage departed from the Chateau de Bellamy, a second began its journey to Paris. Inside was Comtesse Seraphine, along with her parents and older brother, who were discussing the seemingly imminent failure of the two families' plan for Damien and Seraphine to marry. For once, the dark-haired Comtesse remained silent, and her wide, ever smiling mouth stayed in a permanent, tight-lipped frown as she stared out the carriage window, willing herself to keep her emotions under control.

The driver of the carriage was completely untouched by the melancholy of his passengers. Dressed in his brand new uniform, the cleanest and finest clothes he'd ever worn, Emilian grinned to himself as he guided his team of twin white horses along the country road. This was the first "respectable" job he'd ever landed, and he couldn't help but be proud of himself. But there was more to his cheer than the excitement of a new and steady job.

Since that morning, his encounter with that blonde haired girl, Alana Valjean, had replayed itself over and over in his mind. There was something suspicious about it. Perhaps it was his imagination. But perhaps it wasn't. He knew, maybe better than anyone, how the man once called the Devil's Child always found a way to escape, to survive, even with seemingly impossible odds stacked against him. No matter how much a person wanted him to suffer and die, despite all the efforts to destroy him, the Devil's Child, or the Phantom as many called him, simply refused to do it.

_There is dark magic at work in him_, Emilian's mother had once said of the deformed boy. Her son believed his mother's words. Emilian had, at times, seen that dark magic glistening in the eyes of the Devil's Child, and then there came the day when the boy in the cage suddenly rose up against his master, Emilian's uncle, and murdered him. How a small child found the strength to kill a man in his prime was a mystery to some, but the others attributed his ferocity to the Devil himself. It turned out the boy had been aptly named by the circus, for soon all the powers of Hell were unleashed on them, perhaps by the boy's own hateful curses. The years that followed brought nothing but conflict between everyone involved with the traveling fair, be it arguments or fistfights. Emilian's widowed aunt committed suicide. Many of their company became violently sick, and some died. Emilian's father, who owned the circus, fell into complete and utter financial ruin. One day he left, never to be seen again by his wife and son.

Emilian had been on his own for a while now, often joining up with other bands of gypsies for a time before moving on to something else. Much of the time he was a highwayman, as he'd been when he'd run into the Devil's Child and his little whore on the road months ago. Oh, how he wished he hadn't been a coward, and had killed the murderous circus freak while he'd had the chance.

But then, he thought, he wouldn't be in this position now. He had a simple job that would pay him well, and he wouldn't have the opportunity to do something he loved…to spy. He'd relished the chance to be an informant for the Comte de Bellamy, and though Damien believed that his enemy was dead and gone forever, Emilian knew better than to be certain of that. Alana Valjean seemed to love the monstrous Devil's Child, and something in her manner, or her eyes perhaps, that made him think there was a chance the man was still alive, and that she knew where he was.

Emilian knew where she lived. When he got back to Paris, he would return to Sacree Boulevard, and keep a watchful eye on her and the Valjean family. If he discovered the supposedly dead man still lived, then he would find him and take him by surprise. He had had enough of the dark magic that had cursed his family and friends over the years. Killing the freak would never make up for all the suffering they'd endured, but still…taking his life would be a relief, a pleasure. Emilian burned inside with longing, to send the Devil's Child back where he belonged.

_As long I have life in me, demon spawn, I will hate you, and I swear I will never rest until I see your dark soul leave your body and return to its fiery home in the deepest circle of Hell. _


	36. Another World

Chapter 37

_"You have come here, to the seat of sweet music's throne, to this kingdom where all must pay homage to music…" _–Erik

Another World

"Are you sure you want to go tonight, Erik?" Alana asked, watching as he slowly raised himself out of the chair and stood unsteadily on his feet.

"Yes." He spoke with quiet determination. "It will be easier to reach the opera house unseen under the cover of night, even with the soldiers. I've done this before."

Alana sighed and turned to look out the dirty window. They were staying at the hotel closest to the opera house, one of the few establishments that was still in operation. It was surprising to her how empty the streets were here, with many of the businesses closed down. It seemed like ordinarily, this would have been a nice part of town. The hotel they were staying at had once been grand, Cerise had told her, and though the furnishings and decorations were still beautiful, everything somehow seemed faded and sad now, slowly falling into disrepair. "It's getting dark now," she said, watching as the last few stragglers made it off the streets into the safety of their homes for the night. "I'm ready to go when you are." She looked at their pile of luggage on the other side of the room. "Bringing those along might be difficult…"

Erik shook his head. "If you would, take the set of lockpicks and skeleton keys in my suitcase, but leave the rest. You can take a bag for yourself with a few things in it if you wish. You won't need much. There will be plenty of supplies where we're going."

"Will you be all right here by yourself?" Alana asked Cerise as she went to pack her bag. During the carriage ride back they'd discussed everything, and Cerise had decided to stay behind when Alana and Erik went to the opera house. Part of it was her cousin's fear of the dark and being underground. Alana didn't mind; it would give her more time alone with Erik. They had so much to talk about, and with Cerise's promised cover story of Alana going to Détente to visit Marguerite Durand, she would have the time they needed.

"I'll be fine," said Cerise. "Don't worry about me. You two just stay safe."

"We'll try." Alana pulled her cousin into a hug, holding her close. "Thank you so much for all your help. I don't know what we would have done without you."

"You don't have to thank me. We're family. It's my job to help you stay out of trouble," Cerise laughed.

"Well, I'll try not to get into any more," Alana said. We've had more than our share." She looked wistfully at Erik, who'd made his way to the door and was ready to leave. After a final goodbye, Alana and Erik left the hotel through a back door and began walking down the alley.

They walked side by side through the dark backstreets, with Erik still leaning on Alana for support, telling her where they needed to make turns. Every few seconds brought a supposed perception of movement somewhere in the shadows, or the sound of someone approaching, seeing them. Alana felt she would go mad with the fear of being sighted. She glanced up at Erik. She could see the pain he could not hide written on his face, but he continued to walk on. She couldn't believe how strong he was, to keep on going like this, and his perseverance and presence close beside her made her stronger.

"Turn here. This is it." Erik pointed to a final right turn that took them to the back of a building.

"It is?" Alana could see the gigantic opera house towering over all the other buildings, but it was still down the street a ways.

"Yes." Erik let go of Alana and leaned against the wall. He was sweating visibly and his breathing was labored, but he wiped the sweat from the side of his forehead that was exposed, and held out a hand. "Lockpicks."

Alana reached into her bag and pulled out the little metal tools, spreading them out in open palms. Erik quickly selected one and made his way against the wall to the back door of the building. After fiddling with the lock for a moment, the door swung open. He gestured for her to step forward.

Alana walked into the room. By now it was almost completely dark outside, and inside it was even darker. She could see that there were tall shelves in the room, and slowly made out the shapes of pots and pans hanging up. The room was still warm and smelled of delicious food. "This is a restaurant kitchen," she said in bewilderment.

"Yes." Erik entered the kitchen and limped slowly through the dark, searching for something. Soon the room grew lighter. He'd found an oil lamp. "Follow me."

He led Alana to the far side of the kitchen and they stood facing a tall cluttered shelf. "This shelf isn't what it looks like," he told her.

_So many things are…like you…_

"It's a door, leading where we need to go," he continued.

Alana looked at him in amazement. "How do we open it?"

"We'll have to push it aside." Erik moved toward the shelf.

"No! I'll do it," Alana said, walking in front of him and blocking his path. "You need to save your strength."

"It's heavy."

"I'm stronger than I look."

Despite his pain, Erik gave a soft laugh. "I don't doubt it…"

Alana put her hands onto the side of the wooden shelf and began to push. At first it didn't budge, but she kept pushing harder and harder, breaking into a sweat, until it began to move forward slowly. She felt a rush of cold air and pushed even harder, the muscles in her arms straining painfully with the effort. And then, the shelf slid forward with a sudden ease, revealing the doorway into the tunnel.

Panting, she looked over at Erik. "I told you I could do it!"

He just smiled at her, andthenwalked over to the shelf, pulled out a lantern, and lit it. Alana came and took it from him, and they walked into the passageway. Erik directed her to close a heavy iron door from their side of the tunnel, and then they were in utter darkness except for the light of the lantern.

It was freezing, and there were sounds of dripping water and scuffling, chattering noises that had to be rats. Alana shuddered. "Is this where you lived?" Her voice echoed off the cold, damp stone walls.

"I lived underground, yes," he said. "I passed many hours in tunnels like these. But the place where I spent most of my time is not like this at all. You'll see. Come now, follow me." He took her hand and began leading her forward.

"Do you need help?" He'd seemed so weak the past few hours, and she couldn't bear to see him stumble and fall to the ground, hurting himself even more.

"No." His voice had gotten stronger, and he seemed to be walking faster than before, as if being back in this place was giving him some new strength. As she followed him, holding his hand tightly, he sometimes looked back at her, as if he were afraid that somehow she'd disappeared. But Alana never once took her eyes off him. In spite of the cold and the terrifying darkness, and her concern for him, she was happy. Though she did not know what would await her, she was glad just to be with him, to hold his hand, and to see his strength growing. There was something almost strange in his eyes, something she faintly recognized. She could tell he was at home here, in these dark and winding passageways, but it broke her heart that this lonely place was what he had had to grow so used to.

It seemed like they walked through the tunnels for hours, but over time Alana noticed the pathways growing smoother, less natural-looking. There were dusty, cobweb-covered, burnt-out torches hanging on the walls. They started to pass doorways here and there, and some places where the paths branched out in different directions, leading into large caverns or other passages. _It's a labyrinth down here, _Alana thought with a shudder. Still, she focused on the presence of Erik in front of her, trying to ignore the sounds of rushing water off somewhere in the caves, and the sounds of rats moving around their feet.

Finally up ahead, Alana caught sight of a light other than their lantern. As they drew closer, she found that there were new torches burning along the walls.

"Madame Giry must still be here," Erik said, relief in his voice.

Damien's housekeeper. The one who'd known Erik. "Does she live down here too?"

"She always lived aboveground, but she spent as much time as she could spare down here with me," Erik told her. "Without her help, I could never have turned this place into what it became. When I first returned to Paris with you, she was living in the Comte de Bellamy's house and working for him. I believe you knew that from spending time at his home. What you didn't know was that she and her daughter were hiding me at that very house."

Alana stopped in her tracks, forcing him to halt as well and look back at her. "What?" She couldn't believe it. "You were actually _living_ at Damien's house? All that time? He wanted to kill you!"

"So I learned." There was sadness in Erik's voice. "But he never would have thought to look for me there, at least not at first. Not until he began seriously questioning Madame Giry. Likely the Vicomte's doing. Their…quest for revenge led them to her apartment. But by then, her daughter Meg and I had already escaped. We came underground, and the three of us stayed here for a while, until I left with you for the ball."

_If I hadn't begged and pleaded for him to come to the ball with me, he never would have gotten so hurt…nearly killed…_

"It's not your fault, Alana." It was as if he'd read her mind. He looked at her intently, squeezing her hand. "Don't you dare blame yourself."

She said nothing, and he turned back around.

"Come now. We're almost there."

They no longer needed the lantern; the light was growing brighter and brighter. It was almost as if they were no longer underground. At last, they came to a large open space.

In the center of the room was a large bed, carved into the shape of a swan with a black lace canopy overhead, and all around were strange furnishings and pieces of artwork that must have been from all over the world. One piece that stood out among all the rest was a figure of a monkey sitting on a small carved wooden box, wearing Persian clothes and holding little cymbals in its tiny hands. Alana wasn't sure why it stood out to her; perhaps it was its placement on the floor, away from everything else.

She glanced over at Erik, hardly able to believe this was part of a cave. "This is such a nice room…" she began.

He smiled slightly. "You haven't seen anything yet." He took her hand again, and led her out into a giant open space.

There was a lake there, in the middle of the cavern.

But there was more than that. The cavern was lit by what must have been hundreds of candles. They were everywhere, burning brightly on tall gold and silver lampstands, shining light on all the beautiful things in that cave. Paintings, drawings, sculptures, instruments of all kinds, furniture…there was so much there that Alana hardly knew where to look. Still, as she turned, her eyes were drawn to the giant organ that stood shining and proud above it all.

"Do you…like it here?"

Alana looked back at Erik, who was searching her face. His eyes seemed to plead with her. _Like it here. Please, like it here. _

"I do…" she searched for words. "It's incredible…beautiful…" _How can I begin to describe it?_ "It's like a whole other world…"

Erik smiled faintly. "All pays homage to music here…" A strange expression crossed his face as he trailed off, his face pale and drawn. His face was pale and drawn, and he swayed slightly on his feet. Suddenly, Alana saw him falling to the ground, and she sank down and caught his head before he hit it on the hard stone. He closed his eyes and grimaced with the pain.

His strength had run out. Alana looked at him sadly She stroked his face gently and thought about how she could get him up to that bed they had passed.

Then she heard footsteps hurrying toward them, and a girl with blonde hair came into view. When she saw Alana and Erik she stopped, and disappeared again into a passageway. In a few moments she returned, accompanied by the housekeeper from Damien's city house. Madame Giry.

The two other women rushed toward them. "Mademoiselle Valjean?" Madame Giry began, her voice laced with urgency and worry. "What has brought you here? What is going on?" She knelt down beside them, and the blonde haired girl stood nearby, looking at Erik with horror. "Oh Erik," the older woman whispered, taking his hand in hers. "What has happened to you now?"

Erik opened his eyes and met Madame Giry's gaze, but he did not say a word.

"He was shot," Alana said softly, apologetically. _And it's all my fault. _"Damien…your master…shot him."

"He is no master of mine," Madame Giry said sharply. "Not anymore." She examined Erik's injuries. "He was beaten as well?"

Alana nodded, fighting back tears. Looking at his wounds and the pain that he was suffering hurt her, too. "And they were cutting up his face. They stopped when I found them, hurting him. Then I ran away and hid, and they thought I was gone. They threw him in the river and left him for dead, but I found him, and I tried my best to take care of him." She took hold of Erik's other hand. "And my cousin and I brought him back here. Do you think you'll be able to help him?"

Madame Giry sighed, managing a wry smile. "Yes, of course. It is what I've always done…isn't that right, Erik?" Alana saw him give the other woman's hand a squeeze. "It seems to be the unending task I have been given. I will always help him. Now, mademoiselle, I need you and Meg to help me get him to bed." The blonde haired girl came forward, and the three of them lifted Erik to his feet, half carrying, half leading him back to the room with the swan bed. They laid him down gently onto the red cushions, where he closed his eyes again and lost consciousness. Madame Giry sent Meg to fetch him some water, along with some new bandages for the cuts on his face and the gunshot wound. "Can we get you anything?" she asked Alana. She just shook her head, and Meg went off to find water and bandages.

Madame Giry covered Erik with a blanket and tucked it gently around him. When Alana looked at her, she could see how much she cared for Erik. The woman glanced over at her. "You have done well, mademoiselle, in helping him the best you could. Thank you for bringing him back here." She sighed. "He is like family to me."

"I had to help him," Alana said. "He's helped me so much, and I care about him. He's been so good to me…"

"And you have been good to him." The other woman smiled at her. "I have seen a change in him. I see it every time he returns from spending time with you." Alana blushed, and Madame Giry continued. "You bring out a different side of him, Mademoiselle Valjean. He has never…been a happy man."

_Were those tears in Madame Giry's eyes? _Alana studied the woman's face, full of emotion. "I still don't know very much about Erik, other than the little he's told me, but I can see that his life has been a hard one." She sighed sadly, looking down at the broken-bodied man she loved. "I hope he's able to recover from this…what those men did to him…it was the most terrible thing I've ever seen."

Madame Giry shook her head slowly. "He's been hurt badly before. He may not look it now, but he is extremely strong. It's a good sign that he was able to make it all the way down here. I'm sure he'll be able to pull through again." She turned as Meg entered the chamber.

Alana watched in silence as Madame Giry re-treated Erik's injuries and woke him briefly to give him some water to drink. By the time he had drifted off again, Meg had already retreated to another chamber to sleep, and her mother's red-rimmed eyes were beginning to look tired as well. She turned to Alana and told her, "If you wish to go to bed now there are other chambers underground here where you can sleep."

Alana nodded. The stress of the past long days had left her exhausted, and the thought of going to sleep made her even more tired all of a sudden, so she followed Madame Giry back through the winding passageways until they came to a small chamber stocked with supplies, with a good-sized bed along one of the walls. The other woman fetched her some blankets from a supply shelf, and bid her goodnight.

Alana expected to fall asleep the moment her head hit the pillow, but instead she lay there awake, waiting for sleep to come. It didn't. Her mind raced endlessly as she wondered what would become of her. If Erik did recover, then what would they do next? Would he stay underground and she return to her uncle's house? What would happen then? What of her father…would he stop drinking? What would happen when she saw Damien again?

But more than anything, thoughts of Erik filled her mind. Memories of when they'd first met and gotten to know each other, the music lessons, the beautiful night they had at the ball before all hell broke loose. The horrible sight of him being beaten and mutilated by Damien's men, while the man that was once her friend just looked on. What Damien had told her…that Erik was not who he told her he was, that he was deformed, insane, and murderous. The confusion she felt, torn between caring and loving him, and being angry with Erik for telling her so many lies. She wished she could speak with him, to learn who he really was. She wondered how he was doing, alone in the dark…weak, tired, and in pain.

Alana got out of bed right then and followed the torch-lit passages back to the room where Erik was sleeping. In spite of the bandages covering half of his face, and the knife cut on his left cheek, he was still beautiful, she thought, especially now, as he seemed to be resting peacefully.

_The man I know can't be all evil…no matter what Damien says. _

In spite of her anger and confusion, deep down Alana knew she still loved Erik. She couldn't stop loving him. It was crazy, illogical, and she didn't understand it, but she couldn't change it. And she didn't want to, though she felt her heart was breaking. She bent down and kissed him softly on the cheek, and then climbed into the bed beside him, sinking into the luxurious red velvet. She took his hand in hers and closed her eyes, and then at last she found sleep.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Cerise returned home alone just before noon the next day. Her mother and father came outside and embraced her.

"It's good to have you back! I can't wait to hear everything about the ball!" Amelie said excitedly.

Her husband looked toward the carriage and frowned. "Where's Alana?" He folded his hands over his chest.

_Here goes another lie, _Cerise thought miserably. "She decided to go to Détente, actually, to visit her friend. Madame Durand? She's like family to Alana." She spoke with confidence, making eye contact with both of her parents. _They have to believe this story. _

Amelie also frowned. "She went from the Comte's chateau to Détente? That wasn't part of the plan, was it?"

"No," Cerise said. "But she's been missing her town and the people she knew there since she came here to live with us. I guess going back out into the country made it worse. I tried to talk her out of going to Détente by herself, but she insisted she wanted to go, and she didn't want to force me to tag along with her."

"And what about the man escorting the two of you?" Raimond was visibly upset now. "Did he decide to go to Détente, too?"

Cerise realized how this must look. Her parents were thinking Alana had run off with Erik. Which she kind of had. There was nothing good about this situation…her cousin was alone with a man that she had feelings for, and that man also happened to be a wanted criminal. She couldn't let Raimond and Amelie know the truth. "No. Monsieur Erik left the night after the ball on business. We don't know where he is now. The whole thing was quite strange."

Her father was shaking his head. "You mean to say that you traveled all the way back to Paris unaccompanied?"

"Yes. But I'm here now, Father. And Alana's safe in Détente, visiting friends. We're all right. There's no reason to worry."

Raimond sighed. "If you say so. You've never lied to me before." He uncrossed his arms and went to carry Cerise's bags into the house. Amelie and her daughter followed.

"Do you know how long Alana will be gone?" Amelie asked.

"No, she didn't say. Hopefully not too long. It's been nice having her here with us, don't you think?"

Amelie smiled. "Yes, it has. The poor girl has been through so much, so I'm glad we're able to give her a place to call home." Her expression grew troubled suddenly. "Perhaps it's for the best she's not here now, though."

Cerise stopped, confused, and studied her mother's expression. "Why? What's wrong?"

"Andre." Amelie paused for a moment, having trouble continuing. "He's no better," she finally said. "He keeps finding ways to get his hands on a drink, and he's been wandering off the past couple of days since you've been away. When we woke up this morning, he was gone. Your father and I don't know what to do about him. All we've been able to do is pray up until now, but Raimond is thinking of taking serious action and forcing him to go to a sanitarium. It's not the most ideal of options, but it may be the only one left for a problem as grave as his."

"It is for the best that Alana's gone, then. She worries about Uncle Andre so much already. Perhaps he can make progress before she comes back…"

"I certainly hope so. He promised Alana he'd change. It will break her heart if she sees that he hasn't," said Amelie. "Come inside now. You should rest from your journey…and think on something happier. You can tell your father and I all about the ball and being at the Comte's chateau."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Another carriage from the chateau de Bellamy had arrived in Paris the night before. Once its occupants had been dropped off at their grand city house, and the carriage had been delivered to the Comte's residence in Parc de Seigneurs, the driver set off on foot to another neighborhood. Later that evening, Emilian reached Sacree Boulevard, and used his tip from earlier to pay for a room there. He didn't have much else to his name, but he'd have enough to sustain himself doing odd jobs, whatever they might be. Luckily for him, the businesses and houses nearby were very low on is going to be easy, he thought.

He could see the church from his window—he was so close to where the Valjean girl lived.

It was then that he had an idea. He grinned.

_All too easy. _


	37. Nightmare

Chapter 39

"_Love takes off masks that we fear we cannot live without and know we cannot live within." -_James Arthur Baldwin

Nightmare

_Erik was wandering through a nightmare world._

_It was his own life he was reliving-all the worst moments he could remember. From his early days in the slum with his mother and his nights in a cage at the freak show, to his years in the underground labyrinths beneath the opera house and the months after he left, he felt once more all the pain he'd felt then. _

_Despair, hopelessness, betrayal, rage, loneliness._

_Stumbling through this hellish landscape, Erik knew he had to be dreaming, but try as he might he could not wake up and escape the nightmare. Now he was being swept along by a raging river, blood pouring from the gunshot wound in his back. The river had no bottom, just a never ending blackness that was pulling him farther and farther from the surface. Just when he thought he had drowned at last, he opened his eyes to find himself standing in an unfamiliar cave illuminated with an eerie bluish light that came from nowhere and everywhere at once. A strange, thin mist floated about him and filled the cave chamber, its icy tendrils wrapping around his body and chilling him to the bone. _

_Suddenly Erik realized he was not alone in the cave. _

_A shadowy figure stood halfway across the chamber, tall, dark, and menacing, almost completely obscured by the mist. For a while the two remained still, just staring at each other. Then, slowly, the shadow began to move closer. As he approached, Erik saw that it was a man in dark robes, his face hidden both by the mist and the black hood that he wore. Soon the man was standing just a yard away. His presence gave Erik an unusual feeling; he felt strangely familiar, but there was something very foreboding, even wicked about him. _

_The other man let his hood down, revealing his face. Erik gasped. It was his own. Or it would have been his face, if it hadn't been deformed since birth and scarred by the knife. A perfect face without a mask stared back at him, smiling with an air of arrogance. _

"_Hello, Erik," he said._

_Erik just looked at him, confused. _What kind of dream is this?

"_We've had quite a strange relationship as of late, haven't we?" The man with the perfect face began walking in a slow circle around Erik. _

_Erik tried to speak, tried to ask him, What are you? _What's going on?_ But as sometimes happened in his dreams, he found he could not say a word. _

_Still, the other man responded as if he'd heard. "I am the Phantom, though I shouldn't have to tell you that. We've known each other for a very long time, you and I."_

Go away. I don't want anything to do with you.

_ The Phantom glared darkly at Erik. "You should. I am the better of the two of us. You know this to be true. I've always been the stronger one, the smarter one. The one who could do anything, whatever I wished. But you had to resist me, you had to let your weakness ruin everything for the both of us. Do you realize that if you had let me stay in control, your life at the opera house could have been perfect. Triumphant. Instead, it ended in disaster. We were left alone, failing at everything we'd set out to do. The love of a woman, our finest operatic work, and our beautiful opera house were all lost in one night, and we were forced to run away like a frightened animal, reduced once more to complete and utter grief and shame. You and I have been fighting each other for too long, Erik. It's time now."_

Time for what?

_ Suddenly the Phantom had a sword in hand, the one with the silver skull hilt. Erik reached at his sides and found that somehow he had a sword too, identical, save that it lacked the skull. _

_ "You're weak, Erik…and I'm not speaking of your inherent, constant weakness of heart. I mean that you are very weak from your injuries…"_

That was your fault, not mine. I had moved on from Christine. You were the one who was still mad with an obsession for her.

_ "…and now you are sick with fever, skirting on the edge of death. Only one of us will survive, Erik. I think we both know who the victor will be." The Phantom smiled again. "I am the stronger of us, after all. I thank you for creating me, my friend, and it has truly been a pleasure helping you thus far. If you had ever learned to permanently combine our strengths, we could have been great, what with your music and my strength and intelligence. But you didn't, and now I'm afraid it's time for me to take back control. Forever."_

This is madness. What kind of nightmare is this?

_ Erik drew his sword, and then he and the Phantom were fighting, the sound of metal striking metal ringing throughout the cave. He was bruised, battered, sick and weak, and he was losing, being driven back through the mist, toward the dark beyond the cave chamber. The Phantom was strong and powerful, and the sadistic grin never left his beautiful face as he drove Erik back. The weak human was being defeated by the great, dark angel. _

_ Erik's sword was struck to the ground, and he collapsed, unable to fight any longer. He covered his hideous face with his hands and braced himself for oblivion. _

_ But it didn't come. He looked up._

_ Alana had somehow appeared in the cave._

_ The Phantom had stopped and was staring at her with loathing. She lunged at him, but he easily threw her to the ground. _

_ Erik staggered to his feet and took up his sword again, enraged. _

_ "You may have resisted me at times, but you never denied me out right. Not until _she _came into our lives," the Phantom snarled. "She makes you even weaker."_

She makes me happy.

_ "Denying me even once would have been foolish. Denying me every day…well, that's just deadly."_

You've been the cause of every horrible thing that has happened to me in the past few months. You're insane.

_ "You're pathetic. I've had enough of Alana. And I've had enough of you."_

_ Alana stirred and stood up, recovered from her fall. She backed away, looking at the Phantom in terror._

That's not me, Alana, _Erik reached out to her, but it was like she could not see or hear him. The Phantom's evil was all she saw. _I'm not that person. The Phantom isn't real. I'm real. Me. Erik. The one who loves you, more than anything in the world. I don't need the Phantom anymore…there is nothing that I need. Nothing but you.

_ Suddenly there was a flash of light that overcame everything and left him blinded for a moment. When the brightness dimmed and he could see once more, the misty cave was empty but for him and Alana. The Phantom__was gone. Nowhere in sight._

_ Wordlessly, Alana took his hand and led him out of the darkness. _

Erik woke up in his old room beneath the opera house. With his free hand he wiped the beads of sweat off his forehead. Even that movement was taxing; his body ached all over and he felt horribly sick. But despite his pain, he felt a strange inner peace, like some deep cold inside him had faded away.

_His free hand…_

Erik turned his head and couldn't help but smile.

Somehow, Alana was lying next to him, fast asleep and holding his hand tightly in hers. She looked so beautiful now, resting quietly. She was sleeping more peacefully than he'd ever seen her—he remembered when she'd been plagued with nightmares.

_Just like him. _

It touched his heart that she'd decided to stay with him as he slept, but he wondered…had she come here to comfort him—or herself?

Perhaps it was a bit of both. But it was no matter. He was just happy that she was here. Still smiling, he moved closer to her and closed his eyes. When he fell asleep again, he dreamed of nothing, resting at last.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Cerise and Amélie had just begun putting the breakfast dishes away when there was a knock at their front door. Andre, who'd sat through breakfast silent and sullen, eating only a few bites of bread, looked at Raimond and shook his head, so the other man rose and went to the door.

"Good morning, monsieur," he said to the shabbily dressed gypsy man on his doorstep. "Can I help you?"

"I certainly hope so," the stranger answered in accented French. "My name is Emilian Richters. I'm looking for work. For the past year I've survived doing odd jobs, and I was wondering if perhaps I could be of service to you."

Raimond raised an eyebrow, doubtful of whether to trust this stranger or not. "Perhaps…did you have anything in mind?"

"You are the pastor of the church on the other side of the street, are you not?" Emilian asked, gesturing to the plaque with Raimond's title alongside the front door of the house.

Raimond nodded, still a bit suspicious.

"Well, I've noticed that there are leaves along the grass there and on the sidewalk that could use raking. The shrubbery could use some trimming as well. I could do some gardening for your home if you like, as well as any repairs inside the church or your house."

"Hmm." Raimond stroked his chin. "Come to think of it, there is a broken railing along the steps to the bell tower inside the church that I haven't had fixed yet. Do you think you would be able to reattach it?"

"Certainly, monsieur," Emilian said confidently.

"I also have a broken pane of glass in our back door. Someone broke into our house a while ago and we've pinned down some cloth to cover the empty space, but it is very important for it to be repaired soon, with the nights getting colder…"

"I can repair that as well. If I was given the money, I could go fetch you the new pane of glass right now and have the job finished today," the gypsy man offered.

Raimond folded his arms. "That would be wonderful," he began, "but…can I trust that you will indeed use my money to buy my family a new window? I've only just met you."

"I can assure you, monsieur, my intentions are thoroughly honorable. I do not seek to cheat you or your family."

Raimond turned. Andre had apparently been listening to the conversation, and had just come up behind him.

"You're not really going to give this stranger money and turn him loose with it, are you?" Andre shook his head with disapproval. "You'd be out of your mind to do something like that."

Emilian looked wounded. "Good monsieur, I have assured your companion here that I have no intention of cheating him."

"Here's an idea," Raimond said. "Why don't I give you the money, Andre, and you can go with Monsieur Richters to get the new window?"

Andre looked surprised.

"You _both _will have a chance to prove that you can be trusted. Surely neither of you would cheat a clergyman." He gave the two men somewhat of a sly smile.

"Oh, no monsieur," Emilian said, making a sign of the cross. "I can be trusted."

"So can I," Andre growled. "Do you really think I'd steal from you, brother?"

Raimond just stared back at him, making Andre scowl even deeper. Then he went back into the house for a while, leaving Andre and Emilian just looking at each other uncomfortably. When he eventually returned, he handed Andre the money without a word, and handed Emilian a small slip of paper. "That's the measurements for the glass pane," he said. "Good luck gentlemen."

When he'd gone back inside, Emilian spoke first. "Shall we go then, monsieur?"

Andre grunted in agreement. "Where are we even going?"

"I know a good place down the road, follow me!" Emilian said eagerly, and they set off. To everyone else, it would seem that the gypsy man was just relieved that he had found work. He was glad for the money he'd receive for that work, but that wasn't important. He couldn't believe how close he'd be able to get to the family. It would be easy for him to determine if the Valjean girl was helping the Devil's Child. He wasn't sure _how _exactly he would do it, but the wheels were constantly turning in his mind, and he would keep his eyes open for any opportunities.

They came to a shop with a sign above the door reading _A and F Hardware._ He'd passed it a few times since he'd been in the city, and had overheard the Vicomte de Chagny talking about it to the Comte de Bellamy. It was a fairly new establishment, and the aristocrats had some sort of connection to the shop owners. As good a place as any to buy the stupid windowpane.

Upon entering Emilian and Andre were enthusiastically greeted by a curly haired, mustachioed man.

"Good morning, gentlemen! How can I help you today?" The middle-aged man was smiling, but his eyes seemed to plead with them—desperately—to buy something."

Emilian handed him the slip of paper. "I'm working for a man who needs a new windowpane. These are the measurements. We'd like to have the glass as soon as possible."

"Well, you've come to the right place!" the man said brightly. "I'll just speak with my colleague over there," he pointed to another mustachioed man across the store, with meticulously styled hair and large dark eyes that gave him the appearance of being constantly alarmed. "We'll have it ready for you very soon, I assure you!" He chuckled unnecessarily and went with the other man, who turned and disappeared into one of the back rooms.

"You can pick up the windowpane tomorrow afternoon," the curly haired man told them.

"Then we'll be paying you tomorrow afternoon," Andre grumbled. "No sense in sending me down here anyway." He massaged his temples, wincing.

"Thank you, monsieur," Emilian said. At least _he_ could pretend to be polite. "I've done some work for the Comte de Bellamy and the Vicomte de Chagny, and they spoke favorably of you. I'm sure your shop will do a fine job."

Emilian noticed the curly haired man's eyes darken, and his smile disappeared for a moment at the mention of the Vicomte's name. _How did the two men know each other?_ He wondered. _Perhaps this man is another affected by the evil of the Devil's Child. It might explain his association with the Vicomte de Chagny. _

The man recovered himself. "Well, we will certainly do our best, monsieur."

"Thank you." Emilian turned and left, with Andre following him, muttering angrily to himself. The gypsy man walked beside him in silence, but his constant grumbling, sighing, and complaining began to annoy him. Finally he asked, "Are you related to the clergyman?"

Andre looked at him in irritation. "Yes. I'm staying with him now; he's my half-brother. Why do you care?"

Emilian shrugged. "I don't. I'm just trying to have a polite conversation."

"Do I look like the kind of man who has polite conversations?" Andre laughed darkly.

Emilian laughed too, shaking his head. "No…I suppose I don't either. But, anything is better than listening to you moaning and complaining. You're not the only one to ever have a hangover," he said knowingly.

"It's not a hangover…this time. I'm trying to stop drinking and it's not agreeing with me."

"Then why stop?" Emilian asked. "I enjoy a drink as much as any other man. I wouldn't dream of giving it up."

"It's for my daughter," Andre said with a sigh. "I want her to get to know me again, to stop being afraid of me. She hasn't seen me sober in years. I've been terrible to her."

Emilian gave him a sympathetic look. "I'm sorry to hear that. Is your daughter living with you and the clergyman as well?"

"Yes, she is," Andre said. "Or at least I think she is, unless she's decided to extend her visit to our old hometown. That wouldn't surprise me if she wanted to stay there, away from me. She can't stand the sight of me." Suddenly he scowled. "Why am I even telling you this?"

"I'm just a friendly ear, monsieur," Emilian said. "I'm not judging you because of what you're telling me. We all have our vices."

"Not my family, they don't," Andre growled. "A bunch of perfect do-gooders, that lot is. My daughter included."

By then they'd reached Sacree Boulevard and the house. After telling Raimond the window would be ready the next day, Andre went inside while Emilian got to work raking leaves off the grass and the sidewalk by the church. Nothing could erase his grin as he worked. He'd already gotten useful information from the girl's family, and it was only the afternoon of the first day! In no time he would find her and the Devil's Child. He would be the hero who put an end to the monster's reign of terror, not an aristocrat like the Comte de Bellamy, surrounded by wealth and power, consumed with anger at the one thing in his life that hadn't gone right. Emilian's life had never been easy, but the Devil's Child had cost his family and friends everything. Thanks to him, their business had collapsed, and ever since then he had struggled to have food to eat and clothes on his back. His uncle had died, as well as other people he'd loved, and those that survived had parted ways. The Comte thought he was angry with the Devil's Child, thought he deserved revenge upon him.

_The Comte does not know what true anger is. It is all I have known since I was a child. This anger is a terrible thing, but soon I will be rid of it. Soon I will find the Devil's Child, and I will finish this, once and for all. _

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

When Erik woke, he was alone.

He started to panic. _She's gone. She left! Where is she?_ He struggled to sit up and tried to drag himself out of bed.

"Stop right there!" came a stern voice.

Erik froze immediately as Madame Giry rushed toward him. "Where's…Alana?" he managed to say.

"She's bathing," Antoinette answered, easing Erik back into bed. "May I take this opportunity to remind you how brilliant you are? Your water filtration system is awe-inspiring. You should have abandoned the Opera Ghost business and been a full-time inventor."

Erik would have laughed, but his body was too sore for that. "Look at me, Giry. There was nothing I could have been." Since he had known her, Antoinette had always tried to get Erik to share his inventions, his designs, and his music with the world. If she had been cursed like he was, with a hideous face and the hatred of the whole human race, she would not have made such suggestions. He sighed heavily and lay back down, reaching up to touch the bandages on his face. "What is to become of me now, I wonder…"

Madame Giry turned at the sound of footsteps echoing in the cave. Alana was coming over to them, shivering and holding the warm robes she wore tightly around herself.

"The water…was…s-so, c-cold!" Her teeth were chattering as she sat down, still shivering, beside Antoinette.

The other woman nodded sympathetically. "Yes, Monsieur Erik has not yet invented a water heating system. But once he gets well, perhaps he can begin on that. He'll certainly have time on his hands now that he's back home again."

_Home. Is this home?_ He wondered. He didn't even know if he wanted to stay here or not. If the world thought he was dead, then he should no longer have to worry so much about being discovered by the law, or by reward money-hungry citizens. Then again, it would be impossible for him to fit in as a part of the outside world. Perhaps it would be best to remain underground forever, far away from the frightened and disgusted glances of others. Erik shook the unpleasant thoughts from his mind. "Have you had anything to eat or drink, Alana?" He asked hoarsely.

"Yes I have. Madame Giry brought me something from that café. It was delicious!"

"You need to eat and drink as well." Antoinette rose and turned to go.

"No, please…" Erik begged. "If you force food down my throat I'll only feel worse."

Madame Giry returned to his side and placed a hand on the exposed side of his forehead. She frowned. "You're burning up."

Alana's eyes widened. "Will he be all right?"

Antoinette looked at her, then back at Erik. "I believe so. _If _he gets enough rest. I'm going to fetch you some water now, and you're going to drink it when I bring it to you. If I have to watch you drink it, I will."

Erik watched her leaving, then turned to Alana. "I apologize for the cold water," he said, trying and failing not to slur his speech. He felt cold like Alana, but he also felt as if his entire body was on fire. "Besides that…how do you like it here?"

Her smile made him feel stronger. "I love it here." She looked around the room, her eyes shining. "I can't believe how beautiful you made this place."

Erik cringed inwardly. Many things here were his own creation, but many others had been stolen or acquired through other ill means. "I'm glad you like it…but I have to ask you…how long to do plan to stay?"

Alana shrugged. "I'm not sure. I would like to stay with you until you get better."

Madame Giry had returned to the room. "You are welcome here of course, mademoiselle. Here." She handed Alana the glass of water she carried. "He may listen to you better than he would me."

The other woman left the room again, and Alana held the water out to Erik. Without a word, he took it obediently and slowly emptied the glass. When he'd finished, she set it aside, stopping to look around again. Another smile crossed her lips. "I wish I could stay here forever…this room is so beautiful. And the main room! All the light, and the art, and all the different musical instruments! I don't even recognize some of them!"

Erik managed a small smile. "I would tell you about them, and play them for you, if Antoinette would let me out of bed."

"Oh, that's all right, Erik. Stay here and rest for now." Her eyes sparkled, an idea forming in her mind. "Maybe, if you rest for a long enough time, I'll bring you something that you can play right here."

"Very well." Erik sighed. "It has been too long since I played music. Or sang." He turned to Alana. "Would you sing for me?"

Her cheeks flushed pink, and she smiled at the floor.

"Please?"

Still looking down, she took a breath and began to sing a song he recognized right away.

_Before today, there was only pain_

_All I've ever known is night_

_But now I see, when you're with me_

_All I know is light._

_No more hate, despair, or fear_

_It all fades when you are near…_

Suddenly Alana broke off, and hid her face in her hands.

Confused, Erik sat up quickly, making his head spin. "What's wrong?" _Why is she sad?_

Alana didn't move, didn't say anything. She just sat there, frozen.

Erik's heart started to race. _Why won't she talk to me? _"What is it?"

Finally she raised her head. Her eyes were full of tears. "I can't hold it in anymore. I can't act like nothing is wrong…"

"Please, Alana. Tell me what's wrong."

She took a shaky, gasping breath. "It's what Damien said," she blurted out. "You told me what he said was true…"

Erik frowned. _Oh, no. _He'd hoped Alana would forget, but now he supposed that was unreasonable. His insides burned with both fever and shame. "It is true," he whispered.

"How?" A tear ran down her pale cheek. "How can it be true? I know you…how could you do such…terrible things?"

He hung his head. He could not deny his actions; he could not excuse them. _I hate myself. _"I don't know," he said dumbly.

"The story you told me…about how you hurt your face while you were a soldier. That was a lie." He could feel the pain he had caused her—it radiated out from her and pierced his own heart. "I thought I loved you…but I don't know you at all."

_She _thought _she loved me. Does that mean she doesn't anymore?_ His entire world was collapsing around him; he felt like he was sinking into an ever deepening hole. "I'm sorry, Alana. I'm so sorry." He knew there was nothing he could say that would make it better.

Alana choked back a sob. "Tell me," she pleaded. "Tell me who you really are. Everything that's happened to you…why you did what you did. Why you lied to me…so much." She wiped her eyes, but a fresh flood of tears coursed down her cheeks. "What's your story, Erik? Tell me."

Erik let out a long, deep sigh, closing his eyes and burying his face in his hands. "I had hoped I could go through life and never have to tell you the truth. But I was a fool." He met her eyes. "I know now…the past is over. I do love you, Alana. I swear it…and that's why I have to tell you the truth about me. I can't lie to you anymore."

Though his heart was about to break, he finally began to tell his tale. He told Alana the story of his life—every major event that had ever occurred in his life. He confessed every single horrible thing he'd done—at least he thought he covered it all. He told her of his shame, his sorrow, his rage, his obsession, his power, his fear…and his love. And when at last he had finished his story—the true story, this time—he looked over at the girl he'd grown to care so much about.

Alana gazed straight ahead, staring at nothing. She had stopped crying, though her cheeks were still stained with tears. She looked completely and utterly numb, not moving a muscle. At last, she looked up and met his gaze, her expression unreadable.

Erik didn't know what to say to her now, so he just stared back at her, his chest aching terribly. His heart broke more and more with every passing moment. "I…" he choked. "…I would understand…if you didn't want to see me again. If you can't forgive me."

Another, single tear ran down Alana's face.

"Madame Giry and Meg can take you home if you want to leave," he forced himself to say. Alana still stared at him, with the saddest eyes he'd ever seen. "Well? Don't you want to leave?


	38. Forward March

Chapter Thirty-eight

"_Let destruction come upon him when he does not know it! And let the net that he hid ensnare him; let him fall into it—to his destruction!"—Psalm 35:8_

Forward March

Erik felt a deep pain in his chest stronger than any he had felt before, like his heart was being pierced through with a sword and being crushed with a stone both at once. He bowed his head in shame and sorrow; he could no longer bear to look into Alana's eyes. He could not watch her leave him.

He hid the side of his face with a hand and waited for her to tell him goodbye, or to hear her footsteps as she away. But there was no sound from anywhere but the sound of his own heart racing, dying.

And then there was a soft, warm touch on the hand that hid his face. Slowly, he set it down, and brought his gaze up from the ground.

Alana stared back at him, her eyes still brimming with tears. He looked down at the floor again, too ashamed to speak or even look at her. She kept hold of his hand in hers, squeezing it tightly. "Look at me," she whispered.

"I can't…"

"What?"

"I can't…I don't even deserve to look at you…I don't deserve anything. You should have just let me die that night at the river…no. You should have left me long before that." He sighed, and at last he met her gaze. "I am so sorry that you had to meet me, Alana Valjean. You did nothing to deserve such a fate."

As he spoke he saw her expression change from sadness to shock. "No!" She shook her head. "No…" Another tear ran down her face, and he reached across to wipe it from her cheek.

"Don't you see?" he asked her. "Think of all the sorrow I have brought to you. It would have been better if you had never even met me…"

"Stop it!" She interrupted, her voice cracking on the words. "Don't say that, Erik. You _saved _my life, you helped bring me to my family, and you've brought me so much happiness…"

"I have brought you too many tears," Erik said, fighting tears of his own. "Far too many, sweet Alana." He coughed, feeling the effects of the fever that still raged in his body. "Please, for your own sake, leave this place. Forget me. Forget all of this…" Dark memories of the past stirred in his mind. _Is this always the way things end? With my evil deeds driving someone away, and with myself, warning them away from me and begging them to forget?_

"I could never forget you, Erik," Alana said, trying and failing to recover herself. She choked on a sob. "I won't. And I won't leave you either."

"Why?" He stared at her. "Why not?"

"Because I _love _you." She took his other hand and held them both in her own.

"But how?"

She paused to think a moment. "I don't know…" She let out a small, sad laugh. "I don't know! But I do love you Erik, more than I've ever loved anyone else in my life."

"But…"

"I know you've done terrible, awful things in your life before, and God knows it breaks my heart to hear it. But you've suffered so much, and I can see why you might have done what you did. And I know that today you are _not _the same person who did those things. I've seen you change so much just since the day I met you." She broke off, searching for words. "I can't explain it…but I feel…like nothing you do could ever make me want to leave you."

Erik stared at her, not knowing what to think or believe. "Surely…you can't mean that. I've stolen, I've murdered, and I've lied to you…how could you possibly love someone like me?"

Alana bit her lip. "Honestly…I don't know." She smiled sadly. "But I do. _Please_, know that I do. I love you now, and I always will. You are not what you've done in the past. The man I know and love now is kind and good. And worthy of all the love in the world," she added in a quiet whisper.

Erik could not understand. His mind was spinning as he burned and shivered with fever. Perhaps his sickness would kill him and then Alana would be free of this delusion that she could really forgive and love a monster like him. "I don't know what to say," he began.

"Then don't say anything." She let go of one of his hands and reached up to touch the exposed side of his forehead, frowning as she felt the heat of the fever. "Rest, and get well. I promise, I will stay with you until you're better."

"And after that...?"

"I'm not sure," she admitted. "But don't think for a minute that I'm going to walk away from you when that time comes."

Erik said nothing for a while, and then he couldn't keep from allowing himself a small smile. "You deserve so much better than me, Alana."

Alana shook her head. "I'm not so sure of that…but even if you _were_ right, I don't care. _You're_ the one I love." She squeezed his hand and reached up to touch his face. "No matter what." She smiled. "Now rest, and heal. I'll be here when you wake up again." She moved closer and kissed him on the cheek. "I promise."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

A week had passed since the day Raimond Valjean hired Emilian Richters to do repairs and other odd jobs around their house and the church. Raimond had always been too busy with his books and sermons to pay as much attention to the place as he should have, so the extra help was much appreciated by the whole family. Amelie always made sure that Emilian had something good to eat and drink, and never forgot to invite him to come to the service on Sunday. Cerise kept her distance from him though, and from everyone really. She spent most of her time reading, sewing, or working in the garden alone, constantly and silently worrying to herself about her cousin being in danger or being caught by the authorities.

Emilian found things strangely ironic as he put in the new window, replacing the one that he'd broken himself. The Valjeans were so trusting, he thought.

_If they only knew the real reason I was here…_

It was no wonder then, that the girl had been fooled into believing that the Devil's Child was a man like any other, one worth helping. Emilian pitied her, really. He'd done a lot of things in his life that he wasn't proud of, but maybe finding and destroying the Devil's Child once and for all would redeem him somehow. He'd be ridding the world of a dangerous criminal, and he'd be freeing a helpless girl who had somehow fallen under a dark spell. The Comte de Bellamy would reward him well if he could bring the girl safely back, he thought with a grin. She was just a common girl, but she would make a fine Comtesse. She was certainly beautiful enough. Anger boiled beneath his skin. It was unfair, unjust, that the Devil's Child could have her love. _Perhaps…_he couldn't help but think…_Perhaps she will be so grateful to me for rescuing her from the monster that she will fall in love with me and not the Comte!_

The possibility was always there, and so he worked, always thinking of the future, of this grand quest of sorts that he'd begun, to rescue a girl from an evil monster. He raked up the autumn leaves that littered the sidewalk on both sides of the street, pulled weeds from the garden, and began work on repairing the railing that had been broken in the bell tower stairwell. When he wasn't working for the Valjeans, though, he would make runs to Parc de Seigneurs to see if there was any work there to be done. He drove a few of the household servants around on errands, but nothing more. The Comte was not there, leaving the house unnaturally quiet and empty.

One day, Raimond Valjean gave him a letter and asked him to mail it. Emilian left in the direction of the nearest post office, but once he reached a safe distance he stopped and opened the letter. It was to the missing girl, asking why she had decided so suddenly to take a trip alone to her hometown, telling her to be careful, and encouraging her to come back to Paris as soon as possible.

_So she's gone on a sudden and unexpected trip. _

Emilian could hardly believe his luck. This practically confirmed to him that she had gone away to help the Devil's Child. Instead of continuing on to the post office, he put the letter in his pocket. The Comte de Bellamy would need to see this when he came home.

Finally, at the end of the week, the Comte returned. By the time Emilian reached his house, the sun had set and a chill filled the air. It would be a cold, cold winter this year, he predicted. He went into the enormous city house and found Damien having drinks with several guests as they waited for their dinner to be served. Emilian recognized some of those guests; the Vicomte de Chagny was there—his wife noticeably absent—as well as an unusually subdued Comtesse Seraphine. The owners of the hardware store he'd visited were there too, he noticed with interest. _What exactly is their connection to the others here? _He wondered. They were businessmen, not aristocrats.

"Good evening, my lord Comte," Emilian said, bowing as he walked up to Damien.

"Good evening," the Comte said lightly. "How is your new career suiting you?"

Emilian smiled. "Very well, monsieur! But in your absence I have done some other work. I may have some important information regarding..." he paused, and lowered his voice to a whisper, "…the Devil's Child." Despite his quiet tone, he noticed the Vicomte de Chagny and the store owners stop and look at him for a moment before they resumed their drinking and talking.

Damien rolled his eyes. "He's dead, Richters. If he didn't die of his wounds then he drowned in the river. Forget him."

"If we did not see his dead body, then there is still a chance that he's alive. I say he is." The Comte opened his mouth to speak but Emilian cut him off. "The Valjean girl. I say she helped him escape from the river. That she's still helping him now."

"Don't be ridiculous. She ran off in the opposite direction, and we saw him being carried away by the river…"

"She is missing."

"What?" The Comte stepped closer to him, glaring darkly. "What do you mean, _missing?_"

"Look at this." Emilian pulled the letter from his pocket and handed it to Damien, who scanned it quickly, his face paling as he read. "This letter was meant to be posted by her uncle. They think she is in the town of Détente."

The Comte finished reading and then crushed the paper in his hand. He motioned to one of the servants in the room, the head butler, who made his way toward them. "Summon all the carriage drivers here. Tell them to meet me in the adjoining room after dinner."

Emilian was not invited to join the dinner party, so he waited in the library while the aristocrats had their meal. Then he went into the room where the drivers were assembling one by one, and soon the Comte entered.

"I have some questions for you all," Damien said gravely. "Surely you remember how my old housekeeper, Madame Giry, betrayed me by withholding information about the Phantom's whereabouts. That is a crime, punishable by law…I'd have her arrested if I knew where she was now. So, if any of you have something to say, make it true, because I'd hate to have to fire or arrest any of you good monsieurs."

The drivers all nodded their heads nervously and promised to tell the truth.

"Very well. First question." The Comte paced back and forth in front of the line of carriage drivers while the other men stood quietly. "Have any of you driven to the town of Détente recently?"

One by one, each man swore he had not driven there, or anywhere nearby. Most of them did not even know there was such a town.

"You see, my lord?" Emilian said. "None of them have been there. The girl could not have gone there. I say she has taken the Devil's Child somewhere."

"Have you all spoken true?" Damien asked the men again. "Have you told me everything that could be of some use to us?"

"No," one of the drivers spoke up, a surly-looking bald man. Everyone in the room turned to him. He sighed, and wiped perspiration from his forehead. "I drove two girls home from the ball, a red-haired girl and a blonde…"

"Alana and Cerise…" The Comte muttered. "Go on."

"Along the way they had me stop, and they got out of the carriage. They said they'd be back, so I waited. I'd been there a long time when finally they return with a seriously injured man between them. He looked absolutely terrible, his face all bandaged up. He could hardly walk on his own. They put him into the carriage with them, and I drove them to Paris. They paid me more than the usual tip. Told me not to tell anyone about them, and I did keep my mouth shut. But no sense in that now, my lord. Has my information helped you?"

"It has. Now," the Comte said, "where exactly in Paris did you take them? Was it near the opera house, by chance?"

The driver's eyes widened. "The one that was destroyed by fire? Yes. I dropped them off outside a hotel in that general area."

_I knew it. _Emilian smiled triumphantly, as Damien's face turned to stone. Slowly, the Comte turned to the head butler. "Get Raoul, Gilles, and Richard in here, _now._"

In a few moments, the Vicomte and the two shopkeepers entered the room.

"What is it, Damien?" the Vicomte asked.

The Comte de Bellamy shook his head slowly in disbelief. "I don't even know how to say it…"

_I can. _"The Devil's Child, Phantom, whatever you want to call him, is still alive!" Emilian announced bluntly.

"Oh my God!" The shopkeepers shouted out. They both looked extremely nauseous, and the Vicomte de Chagny sank into a chair and hid his face in his hands.

"One of my drivers saw him being helped by two women. Alana and her cousin Cerise both left my house together, and they brought him back here to Paris. My driver dropped them all off at a hotel not far away from the opera house." Damien spoke quickly, then broke off. "How in hell was he able to survive?" He continued to pace around the room, clenching and unclenching his fists or knotting his fingers in his thick dark hair. Emilian wouldn't have been surprised if the Comte began tearing his clothes.

"Perhaps he cannot be killed, my lord," Emilian offered. "He is no ordinary man, after all. It is a possibility he is not even…"

"Of course he's human, you idiot!" The Comte interrupted, furious. "He may be evil and twisted and monstrous and dangerous but he bleeds just like any man! And he can die like one."

"So what do we do now?" The Vicomte de Chagny asked. His cheeks were flushed with anger.

Damien hesitated a bit, thinking before he spoke. "Well, I'd say there's a good chance that the Phantom is back hiding under the Opera House. We have to do something, and fast. He should still be weakened by his injuries, but every hour we delay he'll just be getting stronger."

"But what if he's not down there?"

"Where else would he go? He's too weak to travel far, and there is nowhere else he could go without drawing too much attention to himself. Besides, the opera house has been abandoned by all but vagrants since the fire. Even though it's the most obvious place for him to hide, no one would go to search for him there."

"Rightly so. Those tunnels underground are dangerous," the Vicomte said. "But I think you're right. The Phantom must be there…"

"And Alana must be with him…" Damien said softly. "We need to get in touch with the police. We should have at least twenty of their best officers with us."

"But how will we be able to find him?" Emilian asked. This was the one thing he wasn't sure about. If there were tunnels everywhere beneath that opera house, it could take a long time for them to discover where the Devil's Child was hiding, and the thought of searching endlessly in the cold, dark passageways for such a vicious monster wasn't very appealing.

"I know the way," said the Vicomte with an air of forced confidence. "I can lead everyone underground. This time, the Phantom will not escape."

"He'll hang for sure, if…" Richard began.

"If I don't shoot him first," Damien finished. "And this time, I'll kill him."

Emilian raged on the inside. _You're wrong, Comte. His life is mine to take. _

"Do…do we all have to go underground after him?" Gilles looked as if he might faint. "I for one would much rather prefer to read about your triumph on the front page of the newspaper."

"I can't say I want to go down there either," Richard agreed. "I think the whole thing is best left to trained professionals." He turned to the Vicomte. "You remember what happened to Buquet and Piangi. What almost happened to you. Is it really wise to risk your life again up against that…that…"

"Monster," The Vicomte scowled. "And perhaps not. But I want to be there when he's arrested or killed. He's put Christine and me both through hell and you can't blame me for wanting to see how it finally ends."

"Enough talk!" Damien shouted. "We need to summon the police."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

It had been a long, fruitless afternoon for Madame Antoinette Giry and her daughter. They had walked the streets of Paris for miles looking for employment, but there was none to be found. On their way they'd passed fanatics raving to mobs of angry poor, and beggars languishing in alleys. Though neither one of them said anything, they both silently asked the question: _Would they ever end up like them?_

Antoinette _hated _the thought of having to rely on Erik's ill-earned money to keep herself and her daughter from starving, but she wasn't sure what choice they would have if things kept going this way. She and Meg had almost nothing left of their wages from their time at the de Bellamy house.

They were headed to Café Aria now, where they planned to pick up some meals for themselves, as well as Alana and Erik. In the past week, Erik's fever had broken and he was beginning to heal. Despite everyone's urging for him to rest, he had begun to play the organ again, and even to pick up some of his old compositions, looking over and sometimes revising them. It was clear that he was still weak and in pain, but working on his music again, and having Mademoiselle Alana there seemed to make him happier than Antoinette had ever seen him. She saw him smile much more often than usual, and every now and then, she even heard him _laugh _as he and Alana talked together for hours.

Maybe this was the beginning of a new chapter in Erik's life, she thought. Maybe his story would have a happy ending after all…

"Maman, listen!" Meg said suddenly.

They both stopped walking, and Antoinette strained to hear something out of the ordinary. The street was mostly empty, and soon she heard the sound of footsteps. Many footsteps, marching in perfect time.

"Soldiers," Madame Giry whispered. "Best get out of their way." Quickly, she seized her daughter's arm and pulled her into a shop. They hurried to the window overlooking the street, and watched as a large group of officers marched by.

"What could be going on?" Meg wondered. "Is there a riot nearby? I didn't think those people we passed were _that _angry yet…"

"Wait." Antoinette gasped when she saw two very familiar faces walking alongside the uniformed officers. There was the Comte de Bellamy and the Vicomte de Chagny, passing them by outside.

By now Meg saw them too. "What in the world…oh no." Her face paled.

"Quickly, my love," Antoinette took her by the arm again and they made for the door, leaving the shop as soon as the soldiers were out of sight. They broke into a run, hurrying for Café Aria as fast as they could.

_We have to warn Erik and Alana before it's too late…_


	39. Memories

Chapter Forty

"_A waif on this earth, sick, ugly, and small, condemned from my birth and rejected by all, from my lips broke a cry, such as anguish may wring, Sing—said God in reply, Chant poor little thing."—_Toru Dutt, from a translation of a French poem by Jean-Pierre de Béranger.

Memories

Emilian left the tent when he was sure his parents and two sisters were asleep. Barefoot, he moved through the quiet, empty camp as quickly and noiselessly as he could. As he approached the opposite end of the camp he began to hear the chattering of the monkeys in their cages, and the snoring of the ancient lion in his. Their traveling fair didn't have as many animals as some—the only others they had were a talking parrot and a few well-trained dogs, but they had something none of the other fairs had. At least that's what Emilian had heard. He hadn't yet laid eyes on the new member of their camp—his parents had forbidden him to go near the cage.

He had overheard some of the men who worked with the animals. They said the newcomer would make them richer than they'd ever been before. Emilian had heard many other things, too.

He'd heard the newcomer was a devil.

Or at least half-devil.

How did they ever catch a devil? Young Emilian wondered. Maybe tonight he would find out. He had to see this creature for himself.

As he made his way toward where the devil-child was kept, Emilian noticed that the monkeys had grown silent. The lion had woken from his sleep and was staring at the cage on the other side of his.

What could have gotten Cesar to wake up? The boy thought. There were no whips in sight to get the old lion off his feet.

And then Emilian heard it.

Somewhere, someone was singing a wordless melody. It sounded like a child's voice, only it was nothing like the voices of any children Emilian knew. It was the sweetest sound he had ever heard.

That was what had woken Cesar up, and had made the monkeys go quiet. Sure enough, they were all looking in the same direction the voice was coming from. But…surely it couldn't be coming from the cage on the other side of Cesar's.

The devil-child was supposed to be kept there.

Emilian ran past Cesar's cage as fast as he could. Then, breathless, he found he stood face to face with the devil-child.

Or not. The now silent creature before him looked much smaller than Emilian had imagined. Its form looked human enough, but it wore a strange cloth mask over its face that had three little holes cut out where its eyes and nose were. The moonlight helped Emilian get a good look at it, but he could not see its eyes, and that was unnerving. Emilian just stared for a while, until he could no longer keep his questions to himself.

"What are you?" he asked.

The creature did not answer; it only moved further back into the shadows.

"I want to talk to you!" Emilian said in a loud whisper. "I've heard a lot about you. That you'll make us all rich. All the animals love your singing…that was you singing, wasn't it? Is that why you are here?" The boy wasn't sure about that part. He had heard nothing of any newcomer singing.

Once again, the creature gave no reply. It only sat there, unmoving.

"What are you?" The gypsy boy repeated. "Why do you wear that mask?"

The creature remained silent but it reached its hands up to touch the cloth mask for a moment.

It understands me, then. "Are you really a devil?" Emilian asked, determined to get an answer from the creature. "Or a half-devil?"

It shook its head forcefully.

"You look like a boy to me," said Emilian. The other child nodded. "Then what is your name?"

This time there was no answer.

"Why do they call you a devil if you're just a boy?"

The child touched his mask again, and the gypsy began to understand. "You're not a devil. You just have a devil's face…that's why you have to wear that…"

The child gave a slow nod. Emilian saw him reach up to where the eye holes were cut into the mask, and saw him wipe something from his eyes. He was crying.

Emilian had never felt so confused in his life. He couldn't understand what this strange, masked child was doing locked up in a cage like an animal. The boy was sad. Emilian wanted to cheer him up. "I know that was you singing," he said. "You have the nicest sounding voice I've ever heard."

The boy in the cage rushed forward, grasping an iron bar in each hand.

"You think that?" He finally spoke. He sounded just like any other boy when he talked, except his voice was slightly muffled by the cloth.

"Yes!" Emilian said. "What were you singing?"

"I don't know," the boy in the cage said. It was strange, eerie even, to see this masked figure speaking like an ordinary child. "It's a song I made up."

"You make up your own songs?"

The boy nodded. "I don't know the words to this one yet. Maybe I will soon. I still like to sing it without the words." He turned his head to the lion cage. "The animals like to hear it."

"They sure do. Old Cesar there hates to wake up for anything," Emilian laughed. The boy did not laugh with him, though. "Why don't you take your mask off so I can see your face?"

The boy immediately retreated into the shadows.

"No! Wait! Come back! I'm sorry! I still want to talk to you!" Emilian paused. "If you show me what you look like, I promise I won't laugh!"

The boy moved forward a little.

"You can see me, can't you? Look at my hair…the way it sticks up all crazy! And my nose! It's so big my sisters say I'll never grow into it…and look! I have this scar on my chin from where a cruel boy threw a rock at me…everybody has something about them that looks strange! That's normal, I think," said Emilian. "So you can show me what you look like and I promise I won't laugh or run away."

The boy came forward again where he could be seen clearly in the moonlight. "Look," he said. He pointed to a scar on the side of his neck.

"Did someone throw a rock at you, too?"

The boy nodded. "Lots."

Emilian shook his head sadly. "People can be terrible sometimes."

"I know." The boy hesitated for a moment. "Do you promise…you won't be like the others if I take my mask off?"

"I promise!"

Slowly, the child lifted the cloth mask up a bit, and then he tore it off and flung it into the straw on the floor of the cage.

Emilian let out a gasp, taking a few steps backward.

The boy hid his face in his hands and sank miserably into the straw.

"Wait! Don't be sad!" Emilian recovered himself. "You are ugly…it's the truth. But you're not a monster!"

The boy in the cage looked up. One side of his face was hideous, but the other side was perfect, more perfect than any part of Emilian's face would ever be.

"Did you get born looking like that?"

The boy nodded.

Emilian smiled. "Don't be sad," he repeated. "Lots of people are born ugly. Just look at me! I'm not handsome at all! At least one half of your face looks good."

The boy just stared at him in shock.

"You don't have any friends do you?"

"No."

"Well you do now. I'll be your friend!" Emilian spoke excitedly. "And I'll come to visit you whenever I can!"

"Will you really?" The boy asked, doubtful.

"I promise!" said Emilian. "And," he lowered his voice. "I'm going to try to find a way to help you get out of that cage."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Nearly every night, Emilian would sneak out to talk to the boy in the cage. After many failed attempts to talk to his new friend about his past, Emilian had learned that the boy's name was Erik. He had been born ugly, and his mother was unkind and had sold him to Emilian's uncle, who was in charge of the animals.

"I don't understand why you are treated like this," Emilian said one night. "We have a bearded lady and another woman with tattoos all over. There's even a man with skin like clay who can make horrible faces and bend his body in any way he wants. I don't know why you are here with the animals instead of with them."

Erik did not answer him.

During the day, Emilian would try to ask his parents or the other grown-ups why they were keeping a child like he was an animal. They would brush him off, or tell him to stay away from the devil's child.

"He is dangerous," Emilian's uncle said to him. "More wild than some of the animals, even. Stay away from him, nephew."

"Why is he here, then, if he is so dangerous?" None of this made any sense. Erik was nothing like the grown-ups said. He was just an ordinary boy on the inside, Emilian could tell. The only difference was that he looked strange, scary even. And that he could sing more beautifully than anyone in the world. But nobody talked about his singing, except the few that had heard it for themselves, and they said it was frightening and disturbing that such a creature sang like that.

"Surely it is the devil's music," they would say. "Beautiful, but evil."

Now Erik was beaten if someone heard him sing. Emilian never heard his singing anymore, but he thought that maybe Erik still did, when everyone was sleeping but the animals. The animals always seemed to want to be near him. Kaspar, the trained monkey that belonged to Emilian's uncle, was often found by Erik's cage at night or in between performances.

"It is better here than it was at my mother's house," Erik told Emilian one evening.

"How could it be? You are locked up, and people beat you or pay to come and look at you. It's not right, what my family has done to you! But nobody will listen to me!"

"It is not so bad," Erik said softly. "At my mother's house I had no one. But here I have you to be my friend." He smiled, his mask off as it usually was at night when he spoke with Emilian. "And I have Kaspar." The monkey was holding onto the bars of the cage, and Erik stroked Kaspar's arm. "And Cesar." Erik grinned at the noble old lion in his cage a ways off. "Well, if we were ever able to live outside these cages, I think we would be friends."

It was then that Emilian decided once and for all that he was going to help Erik escape.

The only problem was getting the keys to the cage. Emilian knew his uncle had them, but he'd made several attempts to find and steal the keys. Each attempt ended in failure and two with him being caught. He'd gotten off relatively easy because of his reputation as a prankster, but he was despairing now, worried that he would never be able to free Erik.

One day there was a large crowd of people at the fair to see the freaks, fortunetellers, animals, and performers. Emilian was collecting the money that people gave one of his cousins for reading palms, holding out his hat for coins, when suddenly he heard a loud commotion.

He rushed in the direction of the noise, which he realized with a sinking feeling was towards Erik's cage. Emilian pushed through the crowd until he could see his uncle in the cage, whipping his friend. It was a scene of horror. There was blood running down Erik's back. To Emilian's surprise, his uncle was bleeding, too, from a strange looking gash on the arm. Then Erik lay still, and his uncle stopped. The crowd stared in stunned silence along with Emilian as the gypsy man left the cage and locked it behind him, holding the wound on his arm to try to stop the bleeding. Emilian's aunt ran to her husband and they rushed off to get the wound treated.

"Something should be done about…about…that…" an onlooker tried to say.

"That boy is a devil!"

"He should be locked up in a real prison or an asylum!"

"He's too dangerous to be kept here…"

"Terrifying to think such people exist…"

Emilian just stood there, listening to the things the crowd was saying about Erik. Apparently the devil's child had refused to take his mask off, so Emilian's uncle ripped it off and pushed him forward towards the audience. The devil's child had glared wickedly at the crowd and suddenly he snapped. He'd turned on the gypsy man and lunged at him, sinking his teeth right into his arm. He'd looked at the shocked audience, blood dripping from his mouth, and then Emilian's uncle took the whip from his belt and began to beat him until he stopped moving.

Eventually the disturbed crowd tapered off, muttering amongst each other. Emilian was left standing there. Kaspar the monkey, who had been by the cage throughout the whole spectacle, left too, leaving the boy alone and confused.

"Erik…" he dared to ask, though he feared the worst. "Are you…all right?"

Erik stirred where he lay, and to Emilian's amazement, slowly rose to a sitting position. He winced with pain, but he answered. "Yes." His back was covered in dried blood, and he still had the gypsy man's blood on his deformed face.

"I…don't know what to say…" Emilian was at a loss.

Erik had nothing to say either. Neither boy looked at the other for a long time.. Suddenly Emilian felt a tug on the leg of his trousers. He looked down, and there was Kaspar, back again.

"What is it?" Emilian asked.

The monkey held up a set of keys, then dropped them at Emilian's feet and jumped up to hold onto the bars of Erik's cage.

"By the saints," Emilian whispered.

Erik looked up, curious.

Emilian bent and picked up the keys, counting them. Yes, his uncle carried a set of five keys. "I'll be back, Erik!"

He ran off to do some quick investigating. His uncle had received a nasty bite wound to the arm, and was taking the rest of the day and night off. He refused to have anything to do with the devil's child or the rest of the animals, and was already lying in bed while his wife kept him well fed and with plenty of drink to help him recover from his nightmare of a work day.

The fair was closing for the night, and Emilian had dinner with his family as usual and pretended to go to sleep early. Once he was confident he could make it to Erik's cage unseen, he hurried there as fast as he could.

Kaspar was still with Erik when he got back. The boy in the cage was humming quietly to the monkey. Kaspar chittered softly back, and reached out his hand to take hold of Erik's human one.

Emilian couldn't wait another second. He rushed up to the cage door, put the key in the lock, and turned it. The door swung open, and Erik looked up. Kaspar chattered excitedly. "Quiet, Kaspar!" Emilian whispered. "I told you I would get you out of here, Erik."

The other boy got to his feet surprisingly quickly for someone who'd just been beaten so badly. He slowly walked out of the cage, limping a bit, but less than Emilian would have expected. Clearly Erik was tough, and stronger than he looked.

"It has been good to be your friend, Erik, but I want you to go. Get out of here, and find someplace where you can be free."

Erik said nothing.

"I...I couldn't stand it anymore. I've been wanting to let you out for so long, and somehow, Kaspar got the keys. I guess he wanted you to be free too."

The monkey chattered his agreement and climbed up onto Erik's shoulder, wrapping his tail around the boy's neck. Erik stroked Kaspar's hand, and then went back in the cage to retrieve his mask. He put it back on and turned his head toward Emilian.

"Goodbye, Erik." Tears welled in Emilian's eyes, happy ones because Erik was free, and sad ones because he was losing a friend. Emilian turned his back on that place and ran home Maybe if he just returned to his own warm bed and went to sleep, he would wake up and find that this had all been a dream, and there had been no devil's child, no Erik, no fight, and no beating. Everything would be as it had been before.

Instead, Emilian found only nightmares.

He woke to the smell of smoke, and his mother shaking him awake. "Emilian! Get up now! The camp is on fire!"

She pulled him out of bed and they ran outside. Nearly half of the tents were being engulfed by flames, and the smoke was rising up into the night sky. People were running everywhere, either away from the fire or towards it with buckets of water. "Quick, son! Towards the trees!"

The camp was bordered by a large forested area, and the mothers and children were all headed towards it.

"Where are my sisters?" Emilian asked as they ran.

"They are already in the woods, with the others!"

Suddenly they heard screaming. It came from the woods. All at once the same women and children who had run towards the trees came dashing back, eyes wide with terror.

"Stop!" A woman called out to Emilian and his mother as she ran. "The lion is loose! Stay away from there!" The fleeing gypsies were now stuck between a flaming campground and a forest with an uncaged lion. They all gathered there, huddled together. Emilian's youngest sister had joined them, one of the last to emerge from the woods. But there was still no sign of his older sister, Nadya.

"Just wait, children. Nadya will be here soon. And Papa and the others will put the fire out. Everything will be alright," their mother tried to reassure them, though her own voice shook. Nothing like this had ever happened before. Emilian was too confused and frightened to make any sense of what was going on. All he knew was that everyone had made it out of the woods except Nadya.

He couldn't take it anymore. "I have to go find her!" And he broke free of his mother's grasp and rushed into the forest. He heard his mother's cry of protest, and her command for Emilian's cousin, a boy of about sixteen, to follow and bring back both of her children.

It was so dark in those woods at night. He could hear noises everywhere, rustling in the bushes and in the trees, and he jumped at every sound. He glimpsed shapes leaping from the branches above, and he realized that the monkeys had gotten loose as well. He shuddered. Cesar could be anywhere, and he could be angry from all those years of being locked up. Nadya could be anywhere too.

_Oh, how will I ever find her?_

"Nadya!" His cousin Marko called out.

"Quiet!" Emilian hissed. "Do you want to get eaten by a lion tonight?"

"No," Marko scoffed. "That's why I brought this." He pulled a revolver from his belt. "I grabbed it when the fire broke out, just in case things got worse. Which clearly they did." He called out for Nadya again, and the two of them wandered through the forest, searching.

Suddenly there was the sound of a muffled scream. Both of them burst through the undergrowth and found Nadya. She was on her knees with someone's hand on one side of her throat and a knife blade on the other.

Emilian was filled with horror. Erik was the one holding a knife to his sister's throat. The moonlight shone down on his unmasked face, and he had a desperate, almost wicked look in his eyes.

"Come any closer and I'll cut her throat," said the Devil's Child. He looked fearfully, hatefully at Marko, whose revolver was pointed right at him.

"Erik, what are you doing? That's my sister! Let her go!"

Erik's eyes darted from Emilian to Marko and back again. "I will. If he stays away. Lets me go."

"Do you really think I'm going to let you walk away from this? After attacking one member of our family and threatening to murder another?" Marko took a step forward.

Nadya screamed. Blood dripped from her throat where the Devil's Child had nicked her with the blade.

Emilian was stunned. "You hurt her!" The he realized. "You did all this. You started the fire. And set the animals free."

Erik did not answer.

Emilian felt his face burning with rage. This was no friend of his. No friend would hurt his sister, would try to kill people.

"You really are the Devil's Child," Marko spat.

"Shut up!" Marko was just making it worse. "Please, let my sister go," Emilian begged. "Don't hurt her any more! She didn't do anything wrong!"

"Neither did I…" Erik began. "But I was hurt…"

Nadya was crying, and Emilian was on the verge of tears himself. This was all too much. It was a nightmare. Maybe that's all it was, a bad dream. Maybe Erik was still his friend, and not some vicious devil-child. But Emilian knew all this was real.

Nothing was right here.

Suddenly there came a roar. Cesar leapt out of the undergrowth, snarling. Nadya cried out. The Devil's Child jumped and let go of her, moving away.

Then a shot rang out.

Nadya ran to her brother's side and hugged him tightly. The Devil's Child fell to the ground, clutching his leg. Marko charged toward him but Cesar, spooked from the gunshot, jumped and ran in between him and the Devil's Child. Marko hesitated, and the Devil's Child got to his feet and dashed off into the darkness in the same direction Cesar had run.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

The fire was put out, and no one was hurt. Nadya, Emilian, and Marko all returned to their family. A search party went out into the forest. They tracked the Devil's Child, and were able to catch up with him in his wounded state. Cesar and the monkeys were never found. Only Kaspar remained.

After a long debate, the gypsies decided to lock the Devil's Child back in his cage again, and this time they would keep him chained up. It took a lot of arguing, but it seemed to them to be more profitable to keep him than to kill him or surrender him to prison or an asylum. And now they had a dark story to tell the people who came to look at him.

_He deserves to be locked in that cage now, _Emilian thought to himself, shaking his head in disgust as he gazed at the Devil's Child behind the metal bars. The boy who had once been his friend held his face in his hands, and reached out to pick up his cloth mask. The Devil's Child stared at the mask, humming the tune that Emilian had heard him sing the night they met. Only this time, there were words.

_Paper faces on parade…_

_ Hide your face so the world will never find you…_

Emilian felt as if his heart was breaking and turning to stone all at the same time. He covered his ears to drown out the sound of the singing. Then he turned away and never once looked back.


End file.
